


Tangling with the Candlestick Maker

by SupposedToBeWriting



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post EP156 Pre EP157, Quite Literally, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, The Closest Thing to a Detective Story, Very Mild AU Concerning Some Details With Elias Bouchard, Wherein Jon is a Popular Man Among Entities and Martin is Temporarily Quite Dead, season four spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 78,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22424680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupposedToBeWriting/pseuds/SupposedToBeWriting
Summary: Someone has set a fire in the Magnus Institute, resulting in the deaths of several employees - including one Martin Blackwood. Jon struggles to maintain his humanity as he contends with fear itself to find out who killed him ... and what it will cost to bring him back.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 66
Kudos: 262





	1. The First Loss

**Author's Note:**

> READ ME FIRST!  
> Hello, everyone!  
> So, this story is a bit funny in that there are definitely some necessary content warnings (nothing more graphic than what's usually described in the transcripts/episodes!). However, I don't think it's fair/all that helpful to just lump them in the work tags without references to which chapter they belong to. So, before each chapter, I'll make a quick summary of content warnings just so folks can know what to expect (for that reason, I've also checked the 'decided not to use Archive warnings' box). 
> 
> And, as a general comfort (I suppose?), I did want to emphasize something before the story starts, because I personally can't stand fics with major canon character death - Martin's death is temporary. While remaining as vague about plot points as possible, the last chapter includes a very, very alive Martin Blackwood. :-)
> 
> CW for Chapter One: Arson, Brief Description of a Corpse, Temporary Death of Major Character

The recorder flicked off.

Just like they’d taken to turning on before anything important, they also seemed to know when to take their leave. Jon reached for the tape and filed it appropriately, his thumbs brushing past the plastic boxes before they found their destination. Filing seemed an odd thing to be concerned with, but they’d been burned by Gertrude’s half-assed filing measures before.

Even if a story about the Corruption causing an entire village’s rice crop to be replaced with maggots didn’t exactly have the greatest utility right now, it nevertheless could be someday. Jon was faced with how much he didn’t know on the daily. He _wasn’t_ going to be careless about the bits and pieces of information he did have.

With the statement filed, Jon returned to his desk and laid his forehead down on the cool wood. 10:43 AM, and he needed a break. It was hardly as if Lukas was going to come in and snipe at him for being lazy and unproductive.

This was less like a job and more a marathon for survival, and Jon was taking a breather at the water table. They’d gotten a shocking bit of news yesterday and Jon hadn’t yet been able to wrap his head around it.

Elias, released from prison. That wasn’t going to bode well.

Melanie, gone from the Archives (though Jon didn’t know how much he realistically could have asked of her, anyway, toward the end). Basira, more paranoid and impulsive than ever. Daisy, working harder than anyone at the Archives to restrain herself. And Martin.

Martin, who he was furious with and immensely saddened by in equal turns. He knew what he was doing, so he said, and Jon was keeping his fingers out of it for now. He wanted to help. To overrun and control and throw the entire situation on his lap, but he knew that wouldn’t do a thing. Martin _wanted_ to do what he was doing, even if he had no idea what the overall purpose was - what he was being used for – only _that_ he was being used.

It left Jon at a particularly unhelpful impasse, one where he felt like he was (a) playing right into their hands and (b) inadvertently making things worse for everyone. He groaned against his wooden desk. What was worse, even after he’d just recorded a statement, he was still a little Hungry. Tapes helped, but there’d been a curious case of diminishing returns. He wondered if that would ever stop. What if ‘slurping people’s brains’, as the others had so delicately put it, didn’t help after a time? What was _after_ that?

Not worth fussing over. World might end by then, and it seemed pretty selfish to be worried about his own safety when the entire world was at risk.

The door to his office opened, and he heard light, hesitant footsteps. “Hi, Daisy,” Jon muttered against the wood paneling of his desk. Daisy liked to walk. Better for her physical therapy, she had once explained, and Jon had wanted to ask if she’d actually seen a physical therapist and, if so, what _precisely_ she had told them about what happened. “Looking for me?”

“Basira’s went out. Looking for Elias, she says,” Daisy explained. He heard her grunt softly with her back against the wall. Wall sits strengthened the muscles in her legs, which she sorely needed, even if Jon half-thought she was pushing herself too far with them sometimes. “Was wondering if you knew where she might’ve went, specifically.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“No.” Daisy’s voice was flat.

Elias’ whereabouts were another enigma. “I couldn’t tell you,” Jon admitted. “I’ve tried to figure it out a couple of times. Never ended well for me. I thought, maybe the tunnels below the Archives, but –”

“But if he’s there, he might have the upper hand.” At Jon’s nod, Daisy sighed and looked up towards the ceiling. She was counting under her breath. When Jon heard her reach ‘thirty’, she stood up from the wall and rubbed her legs. There was still a hesitation in the way she walked, as if she had two fence posts for legs instead of joints and tendons, but she was improving. Even Basira noted so. “I just wish she wouldn’t rush off on her own. _Both_ of you,” she added with a pointed look towards Jon. Jon shrugged. “It’s reckless and unnecessary. Leave a note.”

It was a bad day, internally, for Jon. There was the normal paranoia, of course, the normal existential dread and conflicts about identity and the end of the world and trust and love and contentment, but there was also the fear that he was waiting out the clock on … something. The sensation made him even more nervous than usual.

So nervous, in fact, that when the fire alarm went off overhead, Jon threw the first thing in his grasp at the door – the tape recorder. It broke in half on the ground, useless. Jon had no doubt that it would be perfectly repaired and sitting on his desk the following day. “Is that the _fire alarm_?” Jon asked in shock stupidly, almost yelling to be heard over the ringing bell. The last time it had gone off had been with Prentiss, _years_ ago.

At that moment, the sprinklers – which Jon never thought had actually worked as they were intended, rusted and dirty as they were – went off. Jon was right in one matter. The sprinklers, and the pipes they were connected to, were rather rusty. The water they sent down was not clear, but instead tinged a dark, muddy _red._ It smelled so terribly that Jon wrinkled his nose, throwing his jacket over his head. “And a sprinkler system,” Daisy additionally reported. “I guess we … “

“Evacuate?” They asked at the same time.

Jon reached for his coat and keys. With all the urgency of people who hadn’t had to evacuate a fire alarm for an actual fire before, Jon opened the door for Daisy to enter the corridor. That was when he caught sight of it – or rather, the smell. _Smoke._

The Archives were on fire, deeper into their core, down the hallway. He could hear it, now, the sound of creeping, crackling flames. “Oh my god,” Daisy muttered in shock. At the curve of a hallway corner, Jon could see a growing red-orange light.

“We have to get going.” They made it to the emergency stairwell, and Jon couldn’t help but think it incredibly dangerous that they were made of wood. Up ahead, Jon heard the stomping of dozens of feet on creepy stairs. The Archives were, as the name implied, a few floors down from the rest of the Magnus Institute. Most usually took the lift. He sure bloody did. Wasn’t going to be getting any cardio when he was descending into Hell itself, no thank you. Daisy looked up the stairs with concern, and Jon reached for her arm. “Lean on me. We’ll get up there before the fire gets any closer.”

And they did. By the time they climbed a flight of stairs, Jon saw more of the Magnus Institute employees starting to evacuate alongside them. He’d never seen them before, but that didn’t mean much. Jon didn’t attend the socials.

They paid the pair no mind as Jon helped Daisy up the stairs, one step at a time. There had been the urge to pick her up and carry her, but Jon didn’t want to (a) rob her of her dignity when she was perfectly able and (b) make a fool out of himself, because he had the approximate shape of a yardstick and Daisy, despite the muscle atrophy, could probably break him in half.

Jon came to an important conclusion, the further they climbed: the fire was on more than one floor of the Institute. His breathing became labored as the smoke started to collect in his lungs, coughing against the sleeve of his jacket.

They passed another floor and Jon saw flames licking under the bottom of a door. _Arson?_ Came his immediate thought. It wasn’t hard to think of who would want to burn down the Institute, but this seemed … _more_ than one person’s ill-will. This was the lives of several dozen innocents. Smoke choked out all the air, an awful stench that made Jon wheeze wildly. His eyes started to stream freely. It _burned._

They were one of the last few to exit the building, it seemed, given their late start. As they pushed through the emergency exit, Jon saw at least several dozen workers out standing on the London street. They all stared at the Institute (and, as a matter of spatial position, currently at Jon and Daisy). The pair stumbled out of the fire exit and turned to stare back at the Institute.

The Institute wasn’t very large, even if the basement itself seemed cavernous. It was settled right next to the Thames – _close enough that a real estate listing would list it as a ‘riverside view’, but no window actually gave a clear view of the river_ – and was clearly much older than either of the buildings on the left or right. They stood tall, while something about the Institute seemed to … sag.

Pillars enshrined the front entrance, half-obscuring the carved stone emblem of the place. Above it all, Jon could see the motto of the Institute staring down at them.

_Vigilo. Opperior. Audio._

Flames flickered against and outside the windows on the second and third floor. A few had shattered on the first and the fire seemed to climb the walls, like some twisted, flickering creature trying to rise higher and higher. _Had it started in the basement?_ Jon wondered, but more pressingly: _Is this how it ends? The Institute being burned to the ground?_

_If it does, do I die?_

Still coughing, Daisy withdrew her arm from around Jon’s shoulders. _Does Daisy?_ Jon stood in the clustered street, struck dumb. Jon saw flashing lights of emergency vehicles blocking off the street, and a few firefighters dash inside. Jon’s mind spun on itself, trying to figure out who caused this – because he was not nearly so lucky that it would be an accident. _Basira?_ He wondered, grasping at an explanation. _Melanie? Martin? Who …?_

Wondering which of his friends were a potential arsonist sent Jon back into reality. Yes, his friends. He needed to track them down. “I’m going to call Basira,” Daisy informed him with no small anxiety in her voice. Jon agreed – _if she were in those tunnels –_ and started to look around the small crowd for the other Archives worker.

“Martin?” He called out, walking towards them. He was coughing, still. It cracked his throat. The smoke didn’t seem to dissipate from his lungs the way normal smoke would. It was like he’d inhaled too hard on a cigarette, but _constant._ “Martin Blackwood? Martin?” He called out, voice scratchy. He made his way to the barrier, watching the flashing lights of firefighters, before turning back around. Police turned up soon after as Jon kept making his way through the crowd. “Martin!”

Martin stood higher than six foot (six foot two and three-sixteenths of an inch tall, his mind Gave to him uselessly), and with a shock of curly, occasionally frizzy, blond hair on his head, he was generally hard to miss. His penchant for wearing vividly colored flannel only made him more obvious, though Jon had noted he’d seen Martin wearing more muted colors lately. In retrospect, it would not have taken more than a few minutes to scan the crowd and realize that he was simply not there.

Jon took more than a few minutes as desperation set in. “Martin? Has anyone seen Martin Blackwood? Martin!” Not only hadn’t people seen him, some of them visibly grunted as if they hadn’t heard that name in a very long time.

After ten minutes, Jon had to come to the realization that Martin was just not there, which meant only one thing (given that Martin seemed to rarely go home): Martin was still in the Institute. In the Archives. Potentially, with the enigmatic Lukas, though Jon couldn’t bring himself to care a whit about Lukas’ safety at the moment.

He turned towards the Institute again. The entrance seemed unscathed by the fire, for now, and firefighters had started to tackle the flames on the upper stories. It was nowhere near safe. If the fire had started in the Archives, the entirety of the basement had to be overwhelmed by now.

Jon took off towards it at a run. _No, no no no no no no._

He managed to get a few steps inside the entrance before he stopped. His feet skidded on the marble just inside – _ash?_ Looking up, he saw clear through to the second floor. A gigantic hole had been burned right through the ceiling. _Good that the second floor isn’t where I’m going, then!_ Jon thought, delirious with smoke inhalation and desperation. Burying his face in his sleeve, Jon made it to the stairs and started to sprint back down into Hell.

Smoke invaded his every sense. His coughing became so unbearably intense that it became easier not to breathe at all. Jon’s vision swam as he slammed down the stairs. “Martin!” He tried again as he reached the door to the Archives. The doorknob handle burned him as he closed his fingers for it, and Jon whimpered as he yanked his hand, already covered in burn scars because he couldn’t catch a bloody _break,_ could he, back. Jon tore his jacket off and placed it over his fingers, pulling open the door. His head felt fuzzy. _Breathe,_ Jon’s mind told him, _you may be an Avatar and only roughly human, but you do still need air, Jon._ Somehow, the thought took on Martin’s voice as he stumbled inside the Archives.

“ _Martin!”_ He tried out again, as loudly as he could. The hallway seemed much longer than usual. Fires danced around him as he found his footing forward. A portion of the ceiling fell just next to his feet, causing him to jump and curse. His voice wasn’t coming out as much more than a wheeze, and his walk became more of a stumble. He passed his office, and then Artifact Storage. If he’d been less oxygen-deprived, he might’ve even been surprised to see that both rooms were completely untouched by the fire.

Jon turned the corner in the hallway and found that he was completely surrounded by flame. He turned his head back and forth in an attempt to see through it – even to find Martin’s office – but the fire was too thick and Jon was too weak. He only felt the heat, buffeting against his face. “Martin,” he tried weakly. _I’m going to get you out, Martin._ Then, something was pulling him back, so firmly that Jon was almost certain it was gravity before he realized the force had fingers.

“What are you _doing_ here?” A Liverpool accent asked him, and Jon looked up at the face. He almost reared back in horror. _No no no no, don’t touch me._ A large black mask obscured the man’s face, before – _firefighter. Wearing a gas mask._ “You’re not meant to be here!”

“Yes I _am,”_ Jon replied, a shade too mature to be brattiness but certainly with the spirit of it. He looked back behind him at the fire, and then towards the mask again. His eyes started to close, despite his best intentions. _No. Stay awake. Martin. Where’s Martin, you useless piece of --_ “I’m the _Archivist.”_ And with that, Jon finally lost consciousness, limply collapsing in his arms.

He came to again with a mask on his face. Air – _oxygen --_ was consistently pushing against his nose and mouth, and Jon drank it in greedily. At least an hour had passed, clearly, given that Jon opened his eyes to the sky and only saw black. What had initially been a cloudy London sunset was now a cloudy London night, and Jon felt himself bleerily entranced by the red flashing lights in the sky.

 _UFOs. Oh, no, silly,_ Jon cajoled himself, _those are the ambulance lights. You’re resting in an ambulance._ His hand stroked against the side of the stretcher, but he didn’t feel anything. Was his hand even his own? _Maybe you’ll go for a ride._ And then: _Wheeeee. I love car rides. I should get a license._

There were voices outside the open back door of the ambulance. “I can’t believe he’d run back _in,”_ a familiar one said, aggravated. “He’s such an idiot. Really. Why didn’t you stop him?”

“I stepped out to call _you,”_ Another familiar voice, similarly annoyed but faintly apologetic. “How was I supposed to expect he’d do something like run into a burning building?”

“Because Jon finds the stupidest thing he can do and _does_ it.”

He would have been annoyed with it, if that oxygen didn’t feel quite so _lovely._ Jon shut his eyes and gulped it in giddily. This was nice. He ought to share it with the others. Lovely, beautiful, pure oxygen. He started to laugh from the sensation. _More, please._

“Oh, great, glad you find this very, very funny, Jon,” Basira mentioned, stepping into the ambulance. Jon’s eyes flicked open to examine her.

“Hi, Basira,” he greeted warmly, unintelligible from behind the mask. “You should try this.”

The mask was removed from his face. Jon started to cough again, but it was already starting to become less violent. His eyes focused more on Basira as he sat up, and he was surprised that he didn’t feel much burning in his lungs at all. _Oh, that’s not normal,_ Jon thought to himself dismally, _That’s not supposed to go away that fast, is it._

“Stand up,” Basira commanded. Jon obeyed and stood steadily on his feet. An EMT stepped inside the ambulance to check his vitals, and Jon already felt his mind grow more acute. Jon shook his head as if dispelling the fuzz from his forehead. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t. What happened? Do the police know anything? Who did it?”

As Basira answered, Jon kept one eye on his vitals. Good. Exceptional, for a man of his poor eating, sleeping, and general life-preservation habits. The EMT stared at the monitor, mystified. “It was intentionally set, but they can’t think of anything that would cause the fire to spread so quickly. No suspects yet.”

“So,” Daisy added. She stepped into the back of the ambulance with a wince and sat down on the edge of Jon’s bed. “Are we thinking Desolation?”

“The Desolation doesn’t really _do_ that, though, does it,” Jon wondered out loud. The thought had occurred to him sometime in his smoke-addled state, down in the Archivse. “Go after people’s workplaces. It’d much rather go after people’s homes, their families, _anything_ else. Most people wouldn’t give a damn about losing their work. Besides, what use would it have attacking the Archives _now?_ Far as I remember, their bureaucracy’s a _bit_ knackered at the moment.”

“I don’t think we can discount the simple fact that they _really_ might not like you, Jon.”

While fair, Jon wasn’t entirely convinced. Basira sighed and placed her hands on her hips. “Is he good to go?” She asked the EMT, who had retaken Jon’s pulse and listened to his lungs for the fourth time. Jon was starting to get ticklish from the stethoscope. Not to mention that it had brushed over the space where he happened to be missing two ribs, and he was never very fond of _that._

“Er, yeah, I – “ She muttered, blinking at the three gathered in the back of the ambulance. “I guess he’s good to go. If you’re feeling alright, sir.”

“Never better.” Jon hopped out of the ambulance and was surprised to feel that he meant it. He smelled of smoke, of course, but he could breathe easily and freely. One of the benefits of being an Eye Monster, he supposed, with the downside of losing his humanity.

More important matters to attend to.

“Did they find Martin?” He asked in a low voice.

Jon didn’t know the extent of Lukas’ powers, but he _did_ know the man was an Avatar of the Lonely and could make himself scarce when wanted. If he were feeling generous, maybe he would’ve done the same to Martin. Make them teleport to a boat in the middle of the Arctic, somewhere.

Then again, the Lonely struck him as a remarkably _un-_ generous Entity.

“Not yet.” Basira took a deep breath. “Jon, they want us to go to the station. Didn’t say why, but they said the sooner the better. Whenever you feel up to it, we ought to go.”

No rest for the wicked, Jon presumed. He looked back over at the Institute.

Most of the stone was scorched black; the windows burned out entirely. An ashy streak mark shot up the front of the owl emblem, dividing the poor creature in half. And yet, the motto of the Institute stood, unblemished and startlingly gray against the soot-streaked stone behind it.

Impossible to know the true damage within, Jon supposed. The library was probably in utter ruin. Jon couldn’t help but feel a sense of profound loss at it. It was their best tool to counter everything that was going on, and if they lost it, they would truly be swimming in uncharted waters.

Martin weighed more heavily on his mind. _Please be okay,_ he begged himself, as if he had any say on the matter, as if he hadn’t utterly failed in rescuing Martin in the first place.

“Yeah. Yes,” he responded. It could have something to do with Elias, it could have something to do with the fire, it could have something do with Martin. Either way, standing and watching the burned-out Magnus Institute wouldn’t do anybody any good. Basira nodded and put a hand on Daisy’s shoulder, who stuck out her lower lip in thought.

“Have you seen Elias?” Daisy asked as they entered a cab. Jon remained silent as he rested his head against the window. Although breathing easily, he reeked of smoke and ash matted down his hair and his clothing. The cab driver didn’t look exceptionally pleased at having them in his vehicle.

Basira shook her head in disagreement. “No. Looked at the CCTV cameras as he left the prison, but he got in a cab and just – left. Couldn’t find out where he’d gone. He’ll turn up, I’m sure, especially now that his precious Institute is burned up.” Jon heard a strange note in Basira’s voice. Almost … anticipation.

Jon felt a familiar pinprick of paranoia – _could Basira have set the fire to lure Elias out?_ And let it fester until he felt the cab stop. It was better to think of explanations than to sit in the cab feeling sorry for himself.

Paying the cab driver, they were ushered into the station. A stony-faced officer met them, and then they were ushered downstairs accordingly. He didn’t speak much, but was tall and almost gauntly pale. They passed a sign that said they were going to the morgue.

Jon supposed the office hadn’t precisely volunteered for the job of follow-the-leader-to-the-morgue, though it seemed strangely fitting that the officer should have a strange resemblance to a warmed-over corpse. He supposed it wasn’t exactly a happy duty in his work, guiding people down to the morgue.

“Strange,” Daisy murmured behind him to Basira, “Thought they’d be taking down our statements or something. Why are they …?” She trailed off as the realization hit her. Jon’s mind hadn’t quite caught up yet, still struggling with _who would do this_ and not _what did this cost._

A woman in a lab coat greeted them outside of a large metal door. She was rather short and stout, with brown hair curling up and over the confines of her hair net. Nevertheless her greeting was warm, with slightly pink-tinged cheeks. A flowery blouse collar was visible just underneath her labcoat. _Too much blush,_ bit _cheery,_ Jon thought to himself, _if it’s all for the dead._ Jon blinked up at her in exhaustion. “You’ve come to identify the body?” She asked enthusiastically.

 _The body._ Jon looked back at Basira and Daisy, who pointedly ignored his gaze. They must have figured it out as soon as they entered the station. “The b-body?” He asked, snapped out of his daze. They’d found a _body._ Sheer panic gripped him. His breath left him in a gasp and Jon couldn’t force himself to inhale again. “Who –“ Stupid question. _Stupid! You know!_ “Where were they found?”

“ _Jon –”_ Basira warned him, reaching forward to grasp his shoulder. Jon shook it off. His voice trembled with effort as he _compelled_ the woman _,_ and he knew it was _unreasonable_ and _forceful,_ but –

“ _Tell me.”_

“He was found in the basement of the Magnus Institute. I haven’t found him on any employment records. Any records at all.” The mortician answered accordingly. When she finished, she blinked a few times as if re-orienting herself. “Would you follow me?”

Finally, Jon inhaled. That had been odd. For just a moment, he had been absolutely certain he was going to black out from it. He had to prop himself up on a wall to get his bearings, but the adrenaline – drumming over his body like so many ants – wouldn’t leave.

“Jon, you don’t have to do this. Let me or Daisy go.”

“No.” Jon was emphatic as he forced himself away from the wall. “You both _wait_ here.” There was anger in his voice, a deep, dark anger that had started encourage his momentary paranoia into a _certainty._ If Basira had gotten Martin _killed …_ there would be hell to pay. Jon’s mind had found an explanation, and because the alternative was being helpless, he was going to latch onto it.

He walked through the morgue door. It was sterile and clean, with long metal tables. There was only one body in the room, covered with a sheet. Jon thought he knew precisely who it was before he walked in, but seeing the sheet made him pause. If that really was _him,_ his body was much smaller than he imagined it would be. Than he remembered it being.

The mortician delicately grasped one edge of the white sheet and pulled it back.

Jon sobbed, deep in his throat, and it erupted as a strangled, aggrieved groan. “ _Martin,”_ he soughed. He stepped forward. His hand rested on the cool metal table, but he could not feel it. 

The body was burnt. Flesh had been peeled away most of his skin, leaving nothing more than a brittle black husk in some places. But a portion of Martin’s head had survived, blond curls spilling over his exposed skull. His jaw was visible, exposing a large amount of his slightly yellowed teeth, his _tongue._ The rest, mercifully, was covered by the white sheet, but Jon felt as if he suddenly had an explanation for why Martin’s body seemed so small.

What struck him most was Martin’s eyes. They were wide open and staring at the ceiling. The eyes themselves were blessedly untouched. Blue eyes stared up at the ceiling, sightless. When Jon had first started working with him, Jon could’ve sworn that they were the same color as a bluejay feather. Now, they seemed nothing more than cloudy gray stone.

Jon had to tear his gaze away. He was shaking.

He hadn’t been able to save him. When he ran into the Archives, had there even been a chance? Had Martin already gone? _Why_ hadn’t he gone for Martin when he was leaving with Daisy? Why had he let Martin die? Why did everyone he cared for _die?_

“I’m sorry,” the mortician soothed. “I can see this is hard for you.”

Jon couldn’t be here much longer. Not in this sterile clean space, not with Martin’s body in front of him, not when he was faced with the grim knowledge that he had _failed._ He pressed his hands up to his temples in grief.

“M-Martin.” He was crying. He hadn’t realized it at first, but tears were freely streaming down his face. Jon blotted them with the sleeve of his coat, but he did nothing more than make them sting with the ash that he’d just spread over his brow. His eyes shut as he considered the question. “Martin Blackwood. He’s one of the archival assistants.”

“One of the archival assistants? He wasn’t in any employment records.”

“Yeah. He won’t be, um,” Jon took a deep breath and took out a piece of paper. Damn Lukas had probably removed all trace of the man. “I can confirm any employment details or – or personal ones, I suppose –“ _But how much did he know about Martin, really?_ – “That you need. Organize funeral arrangements. That …” He took a deep breath. “That sort of thing.” Jon wasn’t sure how much sense he was making; his voice sounded blubbery and tearstained to his own ears.

It hadn’t occurred to him that Martin would _need_ funeral arrangements until Jon offered to be in charge of it. But he would, wouldn’t he? Martin didn’t have any family to speak of. No real life outside the Institute. And what else was there to _do?_ The last one he’d attended had been Sasha’s, and that had mostly been Martin’s doing. It had felt awkward, having a funeral months after a supposed death.

The mortician’s hand was on his shoulder. Jon saw, through his tears, that her nails were painted a vivid apple red. “We’ll be in contact, don’t worry.” As Jon scribbled his mobile down, a drop of water fell from his eyes onto the piece of paper. Embarrassment flooded him.

“Sorry. I am _so_ sorry,” he mumbled, both to her and Martin and to every bloody Entity in existence, he supposed, as he pushed the paper towards her. His hands went to his face again. Ignoring the burn of the soot, Jon scrubbed at his face a few times.

The paper was tucked away inside her pocket. “For what it’s worth, the end isn’t always painful,” she advised, “He probably died from the heat or the smoke before anything else. Sometimes stressful situations even trigger an aneurysm.”

That _didn’t help._ “I’ve got to – I’m going to –“ He was going to be sick, now. The nausea rushed up to meet him as Jon reached for a bucket and lost his lunch, human enough to still be overwhelmed by grief. No. He needed action, not to sit around _crying_ about things. And something could be done – something right outside of that door.

She had killed Martin. Ever the _pragmatist._

Jon pushed through the metal morgue door and saw Basira and Daisy, still waiting against the wall. “ _Basira!”_ He hissed. He went to her first, putting his hands on her shoulders. He didn’t even know what he wanted to _do,_ really, it wasn’t like he could win in a fight or make her get her comeuppance. Jon supposed he just didn’t want her running away. “I hope you’re _happy_ with yourself. You’ve gone and – _Martin didn’t deserve this!”_

Basira’s eyes widened as her hands went up to yank Jon’s off her shoulders. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“He’s _in there!”_ Jon shouted, gesturing with one shaking hand towards the morgue. “He’s _in there,_ and he’s _on the table,_ and he’s _dead,_ Basira, and I hope it was worth dragging Elias out of whatever _crevice_ he’s crawled into, because you have just killed –” 

“Jon!” Daisy hissed out. Jon hadn’t even realized he was surging towards her again until he felt a strong arm wrap around his waist, holding him back. “What are you saying? Basira didn’t set the fire in the Archives!”

“ _Let me go!”_ Jon commanded. “You were probably in on it! Helping – always been you two, hasn’t it, you two against the world, against _me –_ “

It wasn’t fair. Logically, Jon knew that. But he was having a breakdown because his one of perhaps three honest friends in the world was dead on the table, he had died because of Jon, and Martin didn’t _deserve_ any of that. “You’re being stupid,” Basira stated bluntly. “I wouldn’t set fire to the Archives because I wanted to find Elias. Martin’s not the only one who died in there, Jon, it’s just the only body they couldn’t identify. Four other Institute workers died in that fire. Do you really think I’d risk their lives?”

“Yes! It’s what Gertrude would’ve done! What’s a few innocents if you’ve finally nailed down the bad one!”

“Jon, think about what you’re saying,” Daisy directed.

“Oh, I know _exactly_ what I’m saying! Let me go!” After a moment’s glance between Daisy and Basira, the latter nodded. Jon was released and he lunged at Basira again. This time, Basira was done speaking. She side-stepped Jon easily and yanked him by his shoulder, pressing his face _hard_ against the metal wall of the hospital. It hurt.

Basira’s hands were steady on him, and Jon, not even able to get his anxiety out by movement, started to openly break down. “I didn’t _do_ it,” Basira told him emphatically. “Come on. I’ve used the Archives as a source of information before. Why would I throw that away to catch Elias?”

“I don’t _know,”_ Jon uttered miserably, and he actually didn’t. He just wanted to go somewhere and clear his head – somewhere far, far away from the corpse of Martin Blackwood. “I don’t _know,_ Basira, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“It doesn’t _actually_ make sense. I know … Jon, I know you’re grieving, and I’m _so_ sorry, I _am,_ but you have to think rationally about this. Please.” Jon struggled against the grip weakly, and found that it was useless. He gave up and instead went limp against the wall, cheek pressing against the cold metal. He was too tired and too grief-stricken to fight, right then. Jon just quietly sobbed.

“She’s right, you know.”

The voice made all of them turn around towards the entrance. There, stood in all his glory, was Elias Bouchard. He adjusted his cufflinks as he strode towards him. His long black coat – _more like a cape, really,_ Jon thought dimly – flared out behind him. “Apologize for the lateness. I wouldn’t have thought they’d get you to the morgue so soon.”

The noise Jon made in his throat made Daisy look at him with wide eyes, and Basira didn’t relax in holding him against the wall. Jon had to awkwardly crane his neck to see Elias.

He looked … unusually tired. Although Elias rarely seemed to leave the Institute, Jon had never seen more than a hair out of place on his slicked-back head. Purple bags featured on his eyes, now. _Huh._ Jon wasn’t going to be too particularly fussed about that when his hands were around his throat, though. He struggled against Basira regardless. _Let me kill him,_ Jon thought with vengeance, _let me kill him!_

“Basira didn’t start the fire at the Institute.”

“Then who did!?”

Elias’ lip curled distastefully. “ _That_ is irrelevant.” At Basira’s ‘bull _shit_ is it irrelevant’ _,_ he held up one finger. “Language. It was unforeseen, and frankly, throws a gigantic wrench into things.”

“A wrench? Martin is dead, you son of a – “

Two fingers went up. “I understand we’re all a little _flustered._ We’ll talk about it tomorrow, at the Institute.”

“The one that just got burned out,” Daisy clarified.

“You’ll find Jon’s office is as put together as ever. They had an iota of common sense,” Elias continued in a brief mutter, before clearing his throat. “I promise, I’ll explain everything _tomorrow.”_

“You’ve never explained a damn thing in your _life.”_

An additional finger, bringing the total to three. “We’re all feeling particularly crude today, aren’t we? I’ll explain as much as I know, tomorrow, because we must sort this matter out. We can’t have people attacking the Institute like that. If only because, if the Institute burns …” He trailed off. Jon swore that he saw his face grow a little paler. “Then we’re all out.”

There was a hollowness to his words that Jon knew implied more than temporary unemployment. So he _would_ die, then.

“As it stands, I need you all to do something for me. Ms. Hussain, Ms. Tonner,” Elias continued politely, “If you would kindly go to the Archives and bring back everything you can on our various agents on the Desolation. Oh, and also release my archivist.”

Daisy shot Jon a look that was, plain as day, _I told you it was the Desolation._ Jon stepped forward. “So it was the Desolation that did it, then? The Desolation that killed Martin?” He was going to find that cult and _tear it apart –_

In retrospect, it wasn’t hard to know how Melanie had fallen so susceptible to the Slaughter. It was satisfying. It gave him an ounce of control that ultimately wouldn’t change a thing.

“No, the Desolation did not kill Martin,” Elias chided. “But, on that matter, I need you to go to Mr. Blackwood’s flat and ransack it.”

“Ransack it. For what?”

“Personal journals. A diary. Mr. Blackwood was a rather poetic fellow, wasn’t he? Any sort of personal log that he kept. Tapes, written down, even expressive artwork _will do.”_ His boss’ voice turned soft. “I do really want to get to the bottom of this, Jon. And I need all the information I can. Surely you can understand that.”

The idea of ransacking a dead man’s flat – particularly a dead man who happened to be his best friend, given circumstances – wasn’t pleasant. But Elias was right. They needed information, and if Martin’s flat contained it … so be it. He sighed out, low and slow, and placed his hand on the back of his neck.

“Excellent. I knew I could count on all of you.”

“Stuff it,” Basira muttered, and then everything fell silent between them. Jon stared down at the floor. He couldn’t breathe. The air was clear here, but Jon could’ve breathed easier in the thick smoke of the Archives burning. Being around the others, right now, all of them. It was too much.

Jon stepped back from the wall and glanced at over all of them. They were certainly more put together than he was, but only one of them had ran into a burning building and then had a mental breakdown over a dead thing that day. Basira and Daisy looked upset, sure, but they hadn’t _known_ Martin for as long as he did. And Martin hadn’t exactly made himself friendly the past few months.

He stuck his hands in his pockets. His fingers closed around the lighter and a half-full pack of cigarettes. _And you’d been doing so well at quitting._ “I’m going to go have a cigarette,” Jon announced with finality. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”


	2. Schopenhauer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: None

He did have that cigarette. And another. Jon walked the streets of London far past when he should’ve, but if anyone was intent to mug him, they wouldn’t get much off of him. An empty pack of cigarettes and a cigarette lighter that never seemed to run out of fuel. As far as gifts from Avatars went, it had been the most useful one he’d ever received. The bar wasn’t high. The sting of the cigarette reminded him dimly of the smoke from the fire. It wasn’t like Jon had any chance of forgetting it, anyway.

Martin. Martin, Martin, Martin, Martin, _Martin Martin Martin._

There were the professional consequences, of course. Martin was clearly a very important piece in a very complex game, and Jon wasn’t going to kid himself and say that Elias’ concern was at all friendly. Who knew what his loss would do to Lukas, or Elias, or the Institute itself?

And yet, Jon couldn’t force himself to make a plan. As he walked around the cold London night, looking half-feral from the soot and the tears, Jon found himself thinking of the situations they shared that had been the opposite of professional. The moments where they were nearly two normal men in normal situations.

There had been the one and only time he had been to Martin’s flat, for instance. The Archives didn’t consist of very cozy coworkers, especially back then. Sasha (dead now), Tim (also dead), Martin (oh, Martin). It would be incredibly unusual for him to see the personal side of their lives, though Jon had been hypothesizing for a long while that they had all just been very private people prior to their employment anyway. Except for perhaps Tim and his … dates.

One occasion of forced socialization had been during the Magnus Institute not-mandated-but-show- _up-_ Sims-it’s-for- _morale_ holiday party.

The year before everything went to hell, more or less, had been the same year where Ugly Christmas sweater parties had kicked off. Jon owned sweaters, some of which could offensively be called ugly, but none intentionally so. He hadn’t worn anything particularly festive, because he’d been intending to stay there for twenty minutes and take his leave.

Martin had showed up wearing a sweater that had … _lights_ on it. It had been gaudy and an insult to the eyes and ran off a battery pack in Martin’s pocket. What was more, he had shown up with a reindeer antler headband, and for some _godforsaken reason,_ Jon had put it on after some weak cajoling.

Sasha had shown up with a particularly gauche shirt that read _Happy Llamakkah_ on it, and Tim had worn an actual string of fairy lights that _also_ ran off a battery pack, though he’d just gone and taped it to his neck. Elias had worn a Christmas tree pin on his lapel.

Jon supposed he had felt too awkward about _not_ wearing the headband. He had, he had claimed, worn a green sweater _purposefully_ for the season _,_ but Martin had finally convinced him into putting the damn thing on. And his face _had_ lit up when he had worn it, because Martin loved nothing more than getting a laugh at his expense. Putting it on had convinced Martin to go away, anyway.

The staying twenty minutes and leaving plan had still been in effect. _However,_ one of the librarians had nearly cornered him and started asking him his opinions on various poets. Jon was well-read. He did not like defending his hatred for Tennyson in front of others.

It led to him pouring alcohol in his cup (wine, at first, because he disliked beer, and then beer because he disliked conversation more than beer, and finally whiskey because he’d frankly forgotten his dislikes and likes at that point) and drinking more than truly recommended at a company holiday party.

Historically, it was not the first company holiday party that he’d gotten drunk at. It was, in actuality, a four year streak of getting drunk at a company holiday party, though the first while he was the head archivist. 

He had _really_ wanted to get out of the conversation. He had shouted for Martin’s attention, who had been busy talking with the others about something that could very well have been vitally important. But Martin came over regardless and Jon loudly asked for his opinion on the newest filing system he’d read about somewhere in this-or-that at some-specific-time and wandered off with him.

Jon had expressed his thanks when they’d escaped. A few minutes had passed of Martin trying to shift the conversation back to Tennyson, having overheard Jon’s drunken ranting about archaic elitism, and then Jon had bluntly excused himself to leave. He had just started to stagger towards the door and managed to make it to the exit before Martin caught up with him.

There had been an awkward pause, where Jon had tried to blearily understand why Martin had a hand on his shoulder when he _wanted_ to go stumble in the street for a cab, dammit, and why Martin was looking upward, and why Martin flashed him a grin and said “aw, mistletoe!”

Jon looked at Martin, then at the offending plant, and had muttered, “Those are actually fatally poisonous, you know,” and gone back out into the street. He’d just been about to trudge into oncoming traffic before Martin caught up with him again.

“ _Okay,_ let’s – do you even have your wallet on you, first of all.” Jon patted his pockets. He did not. Where had that gone to? “Second, you’re going to get hit and then it’ll be a Merry Christmas for all of us.” Jon bared his teeth in mock amusement. “Third, I’m not entirely convinced you won’t choke on your own vomit if you even manage to make it home. Come on, I’ll walk you to mine.”

“What? No, no no no no no, you’re enjoying yourself, at the party,” Jon muttered, waving Martin off. He made it a few more steps down the path until he thusly vomited into the fresh snow that was still falling around them.

Martin had sighed and caught up with him again. “ _Please_ just let me take you home?”

Jon had given him a suspicious side-eye. People had tried to take him home before and he wasn’t exactly the take-him-home _type._ But this was Martin, Jon considered, who’d walk home in the nude if Jon asked him for his clothing. He shrugged his shoulders and Martin’s arm went around him. “How much did you have, exactly?”

Trilling his lips, Jon shrugged again. “Dunno. I don’t, um,” he tried to explain in the snow, “Do this often? Don’t think I’m like, some alcoholic … misanthrope or anything. Just growling at passerby and sipping Baileys out of a shoe.”

Martin chuckled. “Perish the thought! I think you’re the regular sort of misanthrope who growls at passerby.”

“Good.” And Martin had taken him back to his flat, and he had tried to insist Jon take his bed, but Jon had already passed out on his couch. When he woke the next morning, he was hungover, deeply grumpy, and his shoes had been taken off and organized neatly beside the couch. Jon had taken his leave in the morning and they’d never spoken about it again.

For a long time, the memory had been very unpleasant for him. It was a sign of losing his composure. Martin had had to take care of him like he was some sort of _child,_ for God’s sake. Now, though … not only did it let him remember where Martin lived, exactly, it gave him a fond memory of trudging down the very same street with the man. Martin had been pitifully kind to him, responding to every drunken grumble with genuine warmth.

He wished he had an ounce of that now. He’d even take distant, Lonely-touched Martin over being alone.

Soon, he nevertheless stepped into Martin’s flat. Journals. He was looking for journals, perhaps a laptop of some kind. Stepping up into the front room, Jon had to remark …

It didn’t look familiar at all. He really _had_ been drunk off his arse the last time he’d been there. Jon toed off his shoes and tried not to feel like he was being utterly invasive.

The cold had numbed his hot-tempered grief, leaving him feeling empty inside. He went to go sit on Martin’s couch (the same couch he had passed out on _years_ ago) and leaned forward on his knees.

Somehow, he thought he’d be facing the end of this – whatever it was – with Martin and Basira and Daisy and, well, even Melanie. Then again, hadn’t he thought that years ago with Tim and Sasha, too? There were no guarantees and they knew so little. Jon felt like he was a toddler grasping for things he didn’t know.

He just … wanted Martin back with him. Martin who knew precisely as little as he did, but somehow made it all a little more bearable. Even when was a bit of a twit.

Jon took a long, unsteady breath. _Things. Do. You have to. Go. Get up._ He told himself, each word a dagger into his brain. His brain didn’t do a thing to tell his legs to move, and he instead found himself looking around Martin’s flat from his seated position.

Not very decorated … at all. There was dust on the television and on the bookshelf, but the kitchen seemed clean enough. Jon noted that most of the books on the barely-used bookshelves were journals. Notebooks, really. He’d have to check that out later.

When he didn’t want to crawl up in a little ball and wait the rest of this out, that was.

Finally, he just sighed and pushed himself to stand. He’d gotten a lot of soot on the couch and reflexively apologized to it. Going over to the bookshelf, Jon ran his thumb over the journals and plucked them out.

They were dated. All of them. Jon flicked through a journal that, if Martin’s dates were to be believed, consisted of his poetry written five years ago. Unlikely that it held anything of use. He flipped through the rest of the notebooks on the shelf, finding that they were all filled with poetry. The dates grew farther apart in recent years. Jon wasn’t surprised that Martin hadn’t actually felt up to writing poetry during recent times. Tape recorders were tucked inside some of the notebooks, bulking them up a bit, and Jon knew from a brief brush of the fingers that they were just recordings of the same.

Nothing there. Jon stepped into the kitchen, finding a remarkably sparse fridge consisting of aged milk and gone-off vegetables. He shut it. Something fluttered off the surface of it to the floor. Bending down to pick it up, Jon realized it was a picture. An old one.

Martin stood there, looking rather like he hadn’t expected a photo to be taken. He was much younger. His blond hair was cropped closer to his head and much curlier, the longest barely brushing the top of his eyebrow. He was dressed more formally than Jon had ever seen him, in a cheap suit. It was a size or two too big for him, and wrinkles had already started to form around the creases of his waist and knees.

He was standing next to a seated older woman. She didn’t look well – her bones were frail and thin, an oxygen cannula ran beneath her nose, and her skin was sallow yellow. Still, she was dressed precisely as formally as Martin, clad in a crisply-ironed floral dress that fell below her ankles. Her hair seemed carefully brushed and straightened before being twisted up behind her head with carefully applied makeup. 

Her lips were twisted into a severe frown. Martin’s smile seemed … nervous.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that this was Martin’s mother. They didn’t look alike in the slightest, but she appeared far older than Jon thought she’d be. Martin couldn’t have been more than twenty, if that, in the photo. He saw a cross in the background, pews in the foreground – some event at a church, perhaps.

There were other bits and bobs on the fridge – a pamphlet for a takeaway place, a far, far out-of-date work schedule, magnets scattered at random. This was the only thing of any personal value. Jon took one of the magnets and meant to stick it back onto the fridge. Sentiment took hold of him for a moment, and without thinking of it, Jon slipped the photo into his coat pocket.

Nothing in the kitchen would be very useful. His laptop, perhaps, was somewhere else in the flat. Jon ghosted his way down the hallway and settled his hand on the doorknob. There were no decorations on the walls; Jon wasn’t sure if there ever had been.

Georgie Barker (the closest comparison Jon had to a ‘normal’ person) had her flat walls covered in things. Things about _What the Ghost?,_ pictures of her and friends and family and trips and all sorts of things. Things she liked. Martin’s walls were stark white and starting to peel a little at the edges. The only hint of a personality anywhere were the stacked journals on the bookshelves.

He pushed Martin’s bedroom door in and was greeted by a loud, high _squeak!_ Punctuated by several shorter, more interrogative ones.

“Martin, you have a _pet,”_ Jon flustered, crossing over to a small metal cage. A large gray rat was staring up at him inquisitively. “Ehm, hello, I – Martin never mentioned he had a pet.”

As expected, the rat gave him no response. This complicated matters considerably. What was he meant to do with a rat? His first instinct was Georgie, but the Admiral _definitely_ wouldn’t be a fan of all that mess, and the others didn’t seem like responsible pet owners. He wasn’t convinced that Daisy, with all the hunger he’d seen in her eyes before, wouldn’t eat him.

“I’ll deal with you later.” Turning away from the cage, Jon went to go investigate the bed. Martin’s bedding was entirely rumpled, the sheets and duvet mixed in together. That sent a chill up Jon’s spine. It was ridiculous, but this bedroom was the only place that properly seemed _lived_ in. The rest could be the museum of what a slightly poor early-thirties working professional in London’s flat would look like, but this had undeniable signs of life.

He picked apart the duvet and the bedding. It was like a tightly wound cocoon. Perhaps it was because Jon slept like the dead, but he couldn’t feasibly see how Martin had managed this. In frustration, he eventually ripped away the blanket and threw it off the bed. As he did so, he heard a clatter on the ground.

Jon swore and scuttled over to the laptop on the ground. The screen had partially cracked from the impact, but as he booted it up, it turned on just fine and greeted him with a lock screen.

Shit.

Everything seemed to go a bit dim for a second before Jon typed in the passcode without thinking: B@1L3y.

Bailey. Although it had come to him easily enough, Jon couldn’t think about what it meant for the life of him. Was it a street he had grown up on? The name of his first pet? A boyfriend? A girlfriend? He was faced that he didn’t actually know that much about Martin’s life. Access was granted to him regardless.

Martin’s desktop background was of the ocean. Not of a typical tropical paradise that Jon had come to see on many Institute computers, but the deep ocean during a storm. The waters tossed and turned, a violent shade of near-on black, reflected up at a cloudy gray sky. A storm was rolling in, churning up the waters below. It was not a very relaxing picture. _You’ve wasted enough time,_ he told himself sternly, accessing his browser history and email.

It was a gigantic violation of privacy, Jon knew, particularly concerning the man involved was very dead. But if it helped … then Jon had done worse.

His browser history had all the confidence of a man who lived alone and never invited friends over, but Jon didn’t see anything that could be particularly helpful to their cause. There were searches of people – some whose names that Jon recognized from statements, some that he didn’t – and searches of places, most of which were completely unknown to Jon.

Martin _was_ keeping a record of the Lukas family. Jon found a document file of Martin’s ‘evidence’ of their behavior and connections to the current statements, as well as possible weaknesses of any avatars of the Lonely. It was nothing that Jon hadn’t already known, but to see it gathered all in one place, a clear sign of paranoia and distrust of his current employer …

Jon smiled and chuckled despite himself. _Good job, Martin._

His personal email was rather devoid of much and he hadn’t connected his work email to this laptop. The only thing he’d sent in months was to someone with an address of ‘Trailluvr334’:

_Hi, Tracy!!!!!!!_

_Work has been crazy lately. I have a favor to ask you, because they’ve been trying to push travel on me lately – if you see my light on overnight, it probably means they’ve rushed me out. Could you do me a favour and feed Templeton in the morning? You’re the best. ^_^_

_-Martin_

‘Rushed me out’. Right. At least Martin was responsibly making sure someone looked after the rat in case of his untimely death … or whatever worse fates that befell an avatar of the Lonely.

Also, _Templeton._ Jon looked towards the ashy gray rat, at its beady dark eyes staring up at him. It seemed plump, for a rat.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket and Jon withdrew it. He hoped for Basira or Daisy or even Georgie, for God knew what reason, but instead Elias Bouchard’s number flashed up at him. Jon had to stifle a groan. “Yes?”

“Have you found anything?”

Making direct eye contact with Templeton, Jon shook his head. “Not really. There’s not really much here. Just some old books of poetry and, um, a rat.”

“A rat?”

“Martin’s pet rat. Templeton.” Elias went silent on the other end of the phone, but Jon didn’t need any powers of the Beholding to know that he wasn’t exactly _pleased_ with Jon’s answer. “I went through Martin’s laptop. No premonitions of death, really, but he _was_ keeping track on Peter Lukas. The entire Lukas family. What they had a hand in, what they could do, potential weaknesses.”

“ _Oh,”_ Elias remarked on the side of the phone. Staring at Templeton, Jon couldn’t help but conjure up a mental image of a cat finally cornering the mouse from the tone of Elias’ voice. “You don’t think he _trusted_ Lukas. Wasn’t particularly loyal to him?” 

“Doesn’t seem that way, but I don’t see what that has to do with Martin’s d – with the fire at the Archives.”

The silence was somewhat friendlier on the other end. Elias was writing something down. Jon had a thousand more questions, one that hadn’t occurred to him when he’d been staring at Martin’s body – was Elias just _back_ now? Running the Institute, or what was left of it? What about Lukas? What did that _mean?_

“It may become more important later. Thank you, Jon, you’re performed _very_ well in a very …” Elias let out a thin sigh. “A very _unintended_ situation.”

 _Piss off,_ Jon thought weakly.

“I’ll just have you forward that file to me.” Jon was already opening Martin’s email again to send it along. He didn’t trust Elias, but Elias _did_ seem genuinely annoyed at Martin’s death. There was nothing that motivated Elias more than petty annoyances. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow, so we can … _discuss next steps?”_

“Right.” A pause. Jon had to try something. “Did _Lukas_ do this, Elias? I mean, m – maybe Martin said he wouldn’t help him, or – “

Elias had started to laugh on the other end of the phone. It was dry and smug.

“ _No._ No, I would rather say that Lukas didn’t do it. It’s a little too much leg work for him, you see. He’s _murdered,_ of course, but this is all a bit too dramatic for him.” 

That theory died before it started, Jon supposed. Templeton squeaked his displeasure at him. “Right.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jon. Bright – and – early,” Elias carefully enunciated, before the call ended. Jon slipped the mobile back into his pocket. And suddenly, the night was free to him. There was nothing like the arson of the workplace to _really_ free up his schedule.

He had just turned to leave when Templeton’s squeaks turned a little more distressed. “Tracy will be in to feed you,” Jon promised to the creature that couldn’t speak or understand English, but his promise didn’t soothe the small, furry creature. It had started to climb the metal of its cage. Jon saw its horrendous teeth. _Eurgh._ “Don’t look at me like that. What am I meant to do about it?”

Maybe he was going crazy, because he could swear that rat was giving him mournful eyes.

Jon had to begrudgingly admit that Tracy coming over was only a temporary solution. Soon, she would realize that Martin wasn’t coming home. If she expended the extra effort, she would even find out that Martin was dead. And he didn’t know the woman from Eve, who was to say that she’d volunteer to take care of Templeton in perpetuity?

He suddenly had a very vivid image of Martin’s few belongings being tossed out into the street, of a singular rat cage sitting there in the rain, the cold, perhaps even the snow …

“ _Fine,”_ Jon snapped. He walked back over to the rat’s enclosure and opened it from the top. He placed the rat’s food bag into it before securing it tightly. There seemed to be a small blanket nearby for the purpose of covering the cage, and Jon threw it over the top. “But this is only temporary, understand? I’ve hardly got the temperament to be a pet owner.”

The squeaking stopped underneath the blanket. Jon picked it up and stored it solidly underneath his arm. He pondered briefly about what to do with the rest of Martin’s things, before deciding that he would deal with it later. Martin had to be paid up for the end of the month, regardless, so it was not particularly urgent. He’d have them delivered to his flat later. Jon flipped the lights off as he left. That would be enough to discourage Miss Tracy, certainly.

He headed out into the cold London night with a rat cage underneath his arm. Templeton didn’t squeak in distress as the shock of cold air hit Jon. Snow was starting to fall, sticking to the streets and everything else around them. Templeton’s blanket soon became covered in a light powder.

He’d walk up to the main road, where the streets would ideally be better, and hail a cab from there. Jon ducked his head against the snow and continued to walk. So long as he had something to do, the grief wouldn’t seize him. He debated walking the several miles it would take to get to his own flat, just to keep _walking,_ but the furry little creature wouldn’t be able to stand it for that long.

London was unusually … quiet.

Jon didn’t realize it at first until he came to a little row of shops. All the lights were off. He checked his watch in curiosity. Surely it wasn’t that late for everything to have shut up already, wasn’t it? Perhaps the weather was growing worse than he thought.

He wasn’t able to hail a cab. A few cars passed by, the windows basically opaque against the reflective street lights but none willing to pick him up. The idea that he might _really_ have to walk a few miles to his flat urgently alarmed him, and he reached for his phone to dial for Georgie. She wouldn’t be happy about picking him up at this hour, but _really,_ Jon would explain, _it was for the rat, not really for him._

His fingers had gone numb already, given that Jon wasn’t wearing much more than a thin jacket. The phone screen wouldn’t recognize his touch, causing Jon to swear softly under his breath. He rubbed his hand against his shirt, but it was to no avail. He was just too cold. Templeton scurried restlessly in his cage.

Jon looked up for a shop he could duck into, let both he and Templeton warm up before he ventured back out into the cold. All the shops were darkened, and Jon was just about to give up hope and go sleep in a dead man’s flat before he saw a warm glow.

Oh, a pub. Thank _god._ He hurried forward and pulled the door open. A bell rang overhead, and a burst of hot air went over him. Jon’s shoulders sagged in relief.

It was an old London sort of pub, the sort that had probably been famous for something in the sixties and had probably been around since the nineteenth century but remained largely unfrequented 99% of the time, which led one to wonder how they were affording a London lease. Everything seemed done up in dark wood – the chairs, the tables, the bar itself, even the floor. The floor squeaked loudly as he stepped inside, causing the bartender to look up at him.

“Sorry,” Jon muttered. It echoed throughout the wooden bar, and that was when Jon realized he was the only one there, besides the bartender. All the tables and chairs were empty as he stepped forward. Each step caused another squeak or creak, making Jon wince every time. How did it seem so _loud?_

The bartender sighed. He was an older gentleman with a shock of gray hair, pulled back behind him, and a large gray beard reaching down to his chest. “I’ve been meaning to get that fixed,” he muttered apologetically in a warm and rumbling voice. “Came in out of the cold?”

There was an anchor pin affixed to the lapel of his thick double-buttoned coat. An old sailor, maybe. Jon looked up at the sign above the bar, affixed to the ceiling. It was very old and also carved out of wood, making it hard to read. Jon saw a picture of what might’ve been a hedgehog? Something spiky, at least. Above it was carved the name of the bar: Schopenhauer. _Huh,_ Jon thought to himself, _maybe it means something in German?_

He nevertheless sat on the stool in front of bar and placed the rat cage on top of it. Before he could stop him, the bartender nudged the blanket away with one finger and let out a little chuckle. “Don’t let the health inspector catch you in here, sweetheart.”

“He’s a pet,” Jon replied bluntly. He squeezed his hands underneath his armpits. “I was trying to call a cab, but my hands – the touch screen, you know. Too cold.”

The bartender nodded at him with all the understanding as if Jon had just presented him with a time machine. _Old man,_ he considered. “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

“Well, let me warm your hands with something.” Jon made a noise of refusal, but before he could stop himself, something warm and steaming was pushed his way. “No, no, of course it’s no charge. You’re the first customer I’ve had all night, probably will be the only customer I’ll have all night.”

“That can’t be very good for business.” Jon reached forward and wrapped his hands around the mug. He took a sniff. Oh. _Cocoa._ He didn’t think bars had cocoa. A tentative sip – _it’s chocolate liqueur and water, warmed up hot enough to burn. Christ, that’s awful._ Politely, Jon pushed it away.

The old man shrugged at him. “I don’t mind it much. Name’s Robinson, by the way.”

Robinson. Jon nodded and kept his hands underneath his arms. _Why wasn’t he warming up?_ He thought irritably. His fingers were as numb as ever, and he reached to place them around the hot mug again. “Nothing’ll warm you up quicker than a nice bit of cocoa,” Robinson encouraged, and Jon supposed that, at any rate, the mug was warmer than his own body temperature.

Jon took another sip of it. “You look like you’ve had a hell of a day. Have a fight with your little rat friend? You smell like an ashtray and you’re covered in soot.”

“Templeton,” he corrected, “And … no.” He was hardly going to start crying in front of a stranger, or bear his heart, so he kept it professional. “There was a fire at my place of work today.” A sip of the chocolate mixture. Although Jon felt it tickle his burnt taste buds, it was no longer enough to continue the damage. “It was. Quite sudden.”

“ _Oh,_ well, I’m sorry to hear that. Hopefully you’ll find something soon enough.”

“I still have the job. _Unfortunately,”_ Jon added wryly. “I – “ He cut himself off and stared down at his hands. They were still trembling around the mug. _He was so cold. Surely he ought to have warmed up by now?_ His hands were nearly stiff from it, and he didn’t think he could let go of the mug if he wanted to. His shoulders shook, too, embarrassingly trembling even within his sweater. _Numb._

He remembered Martin’s corpse. Stiff and unmoving on the medical table, probably _precisely_ as cold and unfeeling as he was now. The mug was brought up to his lips, and the liquid seemed much less hot than he remembered. Hadn’t it been nearly boiling when presented to him? Now, it seemed barely lukewarm. What was more, the taste had already gotten worse. Jon felt like he was gulping down old dishwater.

Robinson remained quiet, just polishing a glass and looking at him intently. Jon stared at the glass and could’ve sworn he saw a flash of blond in the reflection. He tried to look over his shoulder but felt nearly frozen to the seat. There was no sound from the door behind him. _Just your imagination. Or your grief. Maybe you’re going crazy._

Poor Martin.

“I lost someone,” Jon explained finally, “In the fire. I didn’t – “ He took a deep breath, keeping his voice under control. “I couldn’t give a toss about the fire otherwise.” _What an awful thing to say, Jon!_ Someone’s voice rang in his ear. _People died!_ And Jon knew he didn’t mean it, not _really,_ but if he said it enough, maybe he would believe he meant it. “But. I didn’t. I don’t know.”

The glass, now polished, was placed in a line with the others. Jon couldn’t see all the way behind the bar – it vanished into darkness. _Probably doesn’t want to light the entire place when he doesn’t get that many people._ Robinson let out a huff of sympathy. “Oh, I _am_ sorry to hear that. Loss isn’t a very easy thing. Couldn’t get out in time?”

“No. No, I don’t know why, because – “ _Because I was right down the hall and had plenty of time, even helping Daisy. Maybe he didn’t want to get out. Maybe he saw the fire as an opportunity to die._ “I don’t know.”

Suddenly, Jon _did_ feel warmth. His hands still felt nearly frozen solid, but warmth started to burn in the corners of his eyes. _Oh my god,_ he thought to himself, _I’m crying in front of a bloody stranger._ The warm tear struck a line down his face. Instinctively, he pried his hand off the mug ( _easier than it felt)_ and rubbed at the corners of his eyes. He started to regain feeling in the tips of his fingers as they got wet, but the tears didn’t stop coming.

“It’s okay, lad,” Robinson urged, “Because now you’re alone. And it’s much easier to be alone, because then you don’t have to _deal_ with loss.” The mug, still full of the undrinkable stuff, was whisked away. Jon could’ve sworn he heard something clack against the side of the mug, as if it had started to freeze. “Think about it. It’s much easier to be a little cold than to feel like you’re getting stabbed through the chest, isn’t it?”

Was that what he was feeling? Was that the pain in his chest? The way that he couldn’t breathe? Jon’s hands were still at his face as he tried to stifle the tears. It felt so _cold._ Water droplets started to freeze on his tongue. 

“And it’s really not so bad, being on your own. You don’t get betrayed. Don’t get people’s tempers all riled up.” Robinson’s voice was remarkably soft and soothing, as if he were a grandfather spreading advice. “Don’t have to watch people die. You can just _be_ alone. Everything you do? Completely on your own merit!”

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t _right,_ this wasn’t _normal,_ this was – this was something. Something fearful. Jon shook without making an attempt to restrain himself, arms folding around his middle in a desperate attempt to feel something. Grief overwhelmed him and he let out an actual sob. “ _No,”_ Jon sniffed, voice thick. “Martin –“

But when he looked up again, there was nobody there.

The bar was completely dark. There was a heady chill in the air, and Jon realized with a start that the front door was cracked open. Snow ghosted in, carried by the breeze. The front windows were entirely blacked out; the door covered with bits and pieces of yellowed newspaper. It allowed some moonshine to spill in, illuminating the old, cracked wooden flooring. The tables were covered in dust and the chairs rested, upside down, on top of them. There was nothing behind the bar, but the sign there still stood: a hedgehog, and _Schopenhauer._

What had that been? Jon numbly rubbed the tears away from his face. “The Lonely?” Jon murmured to himself, questioning, before “Oh my god, Templeton!”

Having no idea how exactly long he’d been there, Jon yanked the blanket off the rat’s cage. He opened it and saw the small creature curled up in his little biome. Reaching in, Jon’s fingers stroked … _warm_ gray fur, and Templeton raised his head to sleepily glare at the intruder who had just stuck his fingers through his front door. “Sorry,” he apologized. When he smiled, he felt the dried tear tracks on his cheeks – they had started to freeze over. “Rats are pretty good at conserving heat, aren’t they?”

He removed the blanket entirely and stuck it inside the little plastic igloo, trying not to suffocate the creature but giving him a bit of warmth. His phone read that he’d been in the bar for forty minutes. Jon could still taste rancid liqueur on his breath.

Still. After sticking his hand up the front of his shirt for two minutes, his phone registered his finger. Jon stood up from the bar. He had his phone in one hand and the rat cage in another as he went to the front door, nudging it open with his foot.

Cars filled the street in front of him. The shop lights were all on as people chatted merrily along the walkway – some holding onto one another, some holding hands, some starting to roll up pieces of snow and tossing it up into the air. As he stood there in shock, someone bumped into him and rattled Templeton’s cage, causing the rat to go scurrying to the side.

At least three cabs were visible in front of him. Jon blinked hard and stepped forward. _What a perfect way to end the night,_ he thought to himself grimly as one cab driver caught his eye, _an encounter with the loneliest Entity to exist._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for the books with the introduction of two supporting characters, one canon (hi, Peter) and the other not (hi, Templeton). Initially I made Peter's fake name with every intention of being a Robinson Crusoe reference, and then I remembered Ms. Gertrude Robinson, and decided, well, it would be very cruel for Peter to choose a fake name that reminded Jon of the previous Archivist, so here we are. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read or kudos'ed or left comments! I always love hearing what people have to say about a chapter (whether it be a favorite line or overall impact or anything), so it's been fun reading them. See you all next week!


	3. Teethache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: In-depth discussion of teeth, maggots, maggots-in-teeth, and brief body horror.

_Statement of Alwyn Machen, regarding her experience with unusual parasites in her dental practice. Original statement given October 17 th, 2009. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. _

_Statement begins._

_I’m a dentist in South Hackney. When I first met my wife, she’s American, she thought I was starting off some sort of joke. You know, about British people and bad teeth. A dentist in South Hackney walks into a … a pub, I guess? That’s just an urban legend, by the way. British people don’t have any worse dental health than anywhere else, it’s just that Americans sort of have a fetish for bleaching and making fun of people who aren’t Americans._

_My wife doesn’t. Just, for the record. Bleach her teeth. That’s not important._

_Anyway. Right. It started around the end of August. My first client was on the 23 rd. We get a big boost in clients around the end of August, beginning of September. Usually more pediatric patients – back to school rush, you understand – but a general increase across the board, too._

_I had a new patient. His name was Matthew. Not his real name, but I thought it might be best to change them up. A University student. Exchange, I think he said he was from somewhere Midwest America when I sat him down in the chair._

_You want to small-talk a bit with your patients before you start digging around in their mouth. People get nervous around dentists. Some are actually, properly scared of them, which is strange to me. I’m hardly scarier than a regular doctor; I just have a more specific area of focus._

_Well. I guess people are scared of regular doctors, too._

_Matthew had a toothache that wasn’t going away. He sheepishly admitted to me that it might be a cavity, which isn’t unusual among Uni students. Alcohol has a lot more sugar than people think, and you usually don’t remember to brush your teeth if you can’t see straight. I told him to sit down and take a look. It was #46. That’s one of your lower right molars. Very common for cavities._

_I had him sit back, and asked him if he was nervous. Mathew flashed me a nervous smile and said that he was in too much pain to be nervous. I told him that was the spirit and to open his mouth so I could look inside._

_The tooth was dead. It was black – not shiny black, not like pen ink, but a dull, mottled sort of gray. There was a large hole in the center, straight down into nothing. I tapped my probe next to it and Matthew flinched in pain. So, I apologized and took out the probe._

_We call a dead tooth a necrotic pulp, which I always found a little … morbid. It’s called that because the pulp of the tooth is where your nerves are, and when they start to die, well, there you are. Necrotic pulp. Some people are lucky and don’t have any pain from it. Some people … poor Matthew._

_I’d have to remove it. I told Matthew as such and he seemed somewhat alarmed, before I reassured him that it really wouldn’t be all that bad._

_I gave him some local anesthetic around the area and waited for a bit, before giving a few taps against his cheek. Matthew said – well, as well as he was able – that he didn’t feel a thing. I didn’t think it’d be all that painful to extract it once he was properly numbed up. Like I said, necrotic pulps are just dead nerves, so it should have been a fairly easy removal._

_I pulled it out. It started to crumble a little when I finally got a good grip on it. Normal. I retrieved my light and shined it inside Matthew’s mouth, to make sure I got the little bits and pieces out._

_That was when I first noticed. There, embedded in Matthew’s gum line around the extraction point, were tiny, white …_ things.

_Oh, damn, I had thought to myself. Those can’t be nerves, can they? Have I made a mistake? Was it not necrotic after all?_

_Then they … started to move. They writhed, a strange spasmodic dance. I watched them disappear back into the fleshy pink interior of Matthew’s gums, until there was nothing more than a circular ring of blood from their entrance point. There had to have been two. Three._

_Maybe four._

_I froze as I looked down, positive that I had seen something wrong. That was when it occurred to me, what they looked like. I hadn’t been able to place it, at first._

_They looked like maggots._

_Couldn’t be maggots. Maggots didn’t do that. Couldn’t do that. Could they?_

_I looked down at Matthew’s face as if nothing was wrong. Like I hadn’t just seen worms burrow back into his mouth. My own was dry, and I couldn’t find my breath. Nothing could cause that in the human mouth. There was no medical text that I had ever read that could even imply something like that. Sure, maggots could infect the dead as easily as anything else, but this was a living, breathing man._

_Chills ran across my spine. Matthew’s jaw was slack and he was staring upward listlessly, looking precisely like he had just died in my chair._

_“Is everything okay?” He asked me, as polite as you please, his eyes suddenly snapping back into focus._

_I mean, what could I say? It was so bizarre. Maybe you’re tired, I told myself, maybe you’ve been doing this too long. No, I finally decided, those were just nerves. Rapidly dying and retreating back into the gums. Not medically possible, not that quickly, but it was the only rational explanation._

_I told him it was fine. I gave him some gauze, told him to take it easy for a day. I told him to see me again in a week so I could make sure that it hadn’t gotten infected, and I sent him off._

_As soon as he was done, I took the extracted bits of the molar and rattled them around in my hand. I pressed my thumb against it and crumbled it further._ Were those bits of bone, _I wondered to myself,_ or larval eggs?

 _I spent the rest of the day not dealing with worms. My patients were all normal. Little girls with curls missing their front teeth and little boys needing four cavities filled. In truth, by the end of the day, I’d almost entirely forgotten about Matthew and his bits of molar. As I was cleaning up, I swept the pieces into the trash._ You were tired, _I told myself,_ and that’s all. You’ll see Matthew in a week and tell him the story and it’ll all be very funny.

_Maybe it wouldn’t be very funny. People don’t like jokes about their mouth much._

_The next few days passed normally. No worms. It was the 26 th when I got an emergency call from one of my long-standing patients. Reginald. Reg. He was older than most of the others. Real tough as nails fellow, I think he might’ve served in WWII? Usually old men are the worst for the dentist. Moaning and whinging. Not Reg. I think … frankly, I think he liked the company. I don’t think any of his children were still alive. _

_Which was why an emergency call was so unusual for him. He was complaining of pain in one of his canines. I’d given him a check-up call six months ago and given him a clean bill of health. Unlikely that he’d managed to rot it that quickly. Reg’s diet was very specific because he had a thousand different ailments befalling him at any point in time._

_Still, I liked Reg, and wasn’t all that bothered by coming back to my practice at ten in the evening. I didn’t turn on all of the lights. Just the front office, so he’d be able to get in, and the one overhead light over the dentist’s chair. Reg came in with his face twisted into a grimace, and I guided him to sit down and tilt his head back._

_I didn’t see anything obviously wrong with it. Just as normal as the rest of his teeth, a deep yellow of a man who’d smoked a pipe back when doctors told him it was healthy. “The teeth are okay,” I had teased him, “But the gums gotta go.”_

_At that moment, he let out a low gurgle of pain from the back of his throat. There was a very visible vein throbbing in his forehead as he tensed in my chair. Whatever was hurting him … it certainly wasn’t doing things halfway. And jokes weren’t going to help._

_I told him to relax, and to open his mouth a little wider if he could._

_The rest of the clinic room was quite dim. My examination torch sent shadows scurrying off into the corners, and in Reg’s mouth. I squinted to get a good look inside of his mouth, bringing the small torch right against his old yellowed teeth._

_Shadows writhed around inside them as if they were entirely hollow. Small worms wriggled inside of his teeth, all of them, as if the teeth were one solid unit and not discrete chunks of enamel and nerves. I watched as one travelled towards the root of the tooth, burrowing into his gums again. It spasmed and jerked itself until it managed to work its way inside, eventually completely disappearing within._

_Before I could help myself, I pressed my gloved finger against the gum just above Reg’s front tooth._

_It gave far more easily than it should have. I could easily jab my finger forward. As I did so, I felt the sensation of a hundred wriggling, moving maggots cluster against the thin barrier between his gum and my finger. Reg screamed._

_I have a friend who’s an oral surgeon. I didn’t know what to do, but I suddenly knew that being here, in this darkened dental office, while maggots infested this man’s entire jaw … I just couldn’t. I called them and informed them I had a patient with severe nerve issues that may need a full-mouth extraction. It was an emergency, I said, but even I noticed how my voice shook._

_As soon as they arrived to my clinic, I feigned illness and left. Cowardly, I know, especially when I’d known Reg for so long. I’m not sure how much of the illness was feigned. I hadn’t been able to keep anything down when I went into my clinic again the following morning. I felt weak._

_I wasn’t sure what I expected when I came in. Maybe Reg’s full body, now gorged with the maggots that infected his every system. It wasn’t there. In fact, there was no sign that anyone had been there last night, except for a small bag of extracted teeth on the examination table._

_I had to make sure. I turned off all the lights in the examination room and grabbed the bag of teeth. I reached for my personal torch and held them against the bag._

_They still glowed as if they were hollow on the inside, but I saw no movement there. Relief overwhelmed me. Then I gave the bag a shake. It gave the most disturbing rattling noise that I’d ever heard in my life._

_The shells of the dead maggots rattled around in the extracted teeth, their stiff bodies clacking against the sides like a macabre maraca._

_Stunned, I dropped the bag. It clattered against my linoleum floor, and for a minute, I just stood there, in the dark. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I felt_ itchy, _as if those maggots had latched onto my arms, were burrowing down into me, into my arteries and I could never pull them out._

_I put the bag into the drawer and took a sick day. I took sick days for the next three days. At some point, I called my oral surgeon. I wasn’t quite sober at the time. I begged her to tell me if she’d noticed anything strange about Reg’s teeth, a confirmation that I wasn’t, in fact, going absolutely mad._

_She didn’t return my call. She hasn’t returned my call. I don’t think she’s going to. Neither has Reg, but I guess – it takes a while for dentures to be made. If he’s even …_

_On the 30 th, I went back in. Matthew’s follow-up appointment was today, and I had to know. I busied myself with administrative work for most of the morning, not even venturing into my clinic room, before his appoint time rolled around. _

_The front door to the clinic rapidly opened, something was thrown in, and then it shut. I didn’t see who had opened it, and when I looked outside to street, there were no cars parked out there. Nobody bustling away._

_I looked down at the bag._

_The inside was filled with 31 human teeth._

_When I bent down to pick it up, they rattled ominously at me. I watched as one (that had formerly been Matthew’s bicuspid) rattled. A crack erupted, right down the center. It split like an egg. In revulsion, I watched as slippery, wet maggots emerged from it, wriggling against the thick plastic of the bag._

_That was about when the phone started to ring. It didn’t stop ringing for days. People coming to me, making appointments for their toothaches. Desperate for help. I even had to get my wife in to start taking calls, because I could hardly extract maggot-filled teeth and listen to someone beg for help about their gums being ‘split wide open’ at the same time._

_I hate to say it. It makes me sound monstrous, really … detached. But it only took a few days for me to get used to it. I never thought of myself as the sort of person who adjusted well to change. I was born in Wales, I moved to London, and I haven’t done much else. I never thought I’d get used to pulling out teeth, to not even flinching as teeth fractured like bone and sent forth maggots into my examination dish._

_I know what you’re thinking. They didn’t eat the teeth. They never lasted very long outside of their egg. With one patient, I watched with scientific purpose as a tooth fractured inside their mouth. The maggots moved, blind and newborn, until they discovered the gum lining. I could’ve sworn they moved down with something like delight._

_I kept all the teeth I pulled. Mixed them together with Reg’s and Matthew’s in a large plastic bag. The identities, who owned the teeth before, didn’t really matter. They belonged to the maggots now._

_I didn’t receive any more full bags of teeth, nor did I ever extract more than one tooth at a time from people. It seemed that, for the most part, they came to me before the maggots infected their entire mouth. Reg didn’t. Stubborn old fool._

_After a week of this, I imagined I’d collected about one hundred teeth. Some intact, with dead maggots rattling around inside them, some hatched like an egg, some crushed to fine dust. I kept it at the bottom of my desk, right next to a large bottle of whiskey._

_My wife didn’t know. Bless her, she was thrilled that I had so many patients. I don’t think I’ll ever let her know. She’s squeamish._

_I used to be squeamish, too._

_Frankly, I sort of thought that would just be my life. I know it must seem ridiculous that I accepted it. For the first few days, I did try to think of some theory. Something in the water, maybe, or someone I ought to alert someone about. I couldn’t find anything. There didn’t seem to be any link between those that came in. Young, old, all genders, all sorts of dental habits. I’d given up hope about finding a link when I treated a 98-year-old man from northern Thailand and a 4-year-old girl from Alaska on the same day._

_It became normal. Sometimes, the maggots would wiggle on my glove after I’d extracted the tooth, and I’d just flick them off._

_If anything, my concerns were with Reg and Matthew. I didn’t know if the others would eventually need the same treatment as Reg and Matthew had received, but ignorance was bliss, there._

_I had nightmares, sometimes. Of Reg, coming up to me, that same stern look on his face. He’d march right up to me with his cane and then flash a smile – and I’d see maggots, sticking out of his gums in thick bundles, wanting to say hello …_

_I still check for Reg’s obituary. It hasn’t come up yet. I don’t know if that means he’s still alive, or … well. Or not. I wonder if he’s angry with me._

_You might wonder why I kept on doing dentistry. The truth is, I’m really good at it. And it ended up not bothering me. It’s like morticians, I suppose. You wonder how they can keep dealing with the dead all day, but they clearly do it. Besides. With a dentistry degree, it’s not like I have many other career options. And it is bloody hard to get your own practice in this day and age._

_It all ended last week. I was sweeping up the clinic floor. Sort of had to, at the end of long days, because of the little bits of worm. One moment, I was crouching down to get the dustpan, and the next, there was a person in front of me._

_I thought it might’ve been another appointment. At the time, I had gotten my wife as my full-time secretary. I asked if they were here because of a toothache, and they shook their heads. They asked if I often dealt with ‘teethache’ – I’d dealt with enough small children asking the same, but this person looked like they were in University. Instinctively, I corrected them, figuring it was a language barrier. ‘Toothaches’._

_“But there’s more than one tooth,” she told me, “And just one ache.”_

_I was still crouched on the floor. It must’ve been what a mouse feels, on the floor of a forest, right as the hawk overheard blocks out the sun’s rays. This new visitor blocked the overhead light, and I was too frightened to do much more than stare up._

_They were dressed neatly. Blue jeans and a white t-shirt. It was getting to be a bit too cold for that, I thought privately. I couldn’t put my finger quite on what bothered me … ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes, a nose, a mouth. It was the flatness of it, I decided. It was as if they were sucking their lips in, leaving nothing but a dark gash on their mouth._

_I repeated my question about the toothache._

_“I’m here for the teethache,” She told me. I noticed that she couldn’t possibly be sucking their lips in, because her lips – or what would’ve been her lips – separated in order to speak. Her hand jutted out to me. “Please.”_

_My breath had frozen in my throat. Maggots, yes, I’d gotten used to dealing with. When they were out of their shells, I’d even found them faintly endearing in their earnestness. They wanted nothing more to be where they were, like children._

_This woman in front of me did not mean as much. They wanted nothing more than to be somewhere else – someone else, I filled in, though I could not say why that thought popped into my mind._

_Somehow, I knew what she was asking for. With her outstretched hand, and her line of a mouth, I knew precisely why she was here._

_Without a word, I stood up and went for my bag of teeth. Her eyes lit up when I returned with them; the gigantic clear container. My feet were lead as I shuffled back to the woman, her hand still outstretched._

_“M-Maggots,” I whispered, because I felt it right to warn her. I could not let her just walk out without knowing that these teeth, had to, must contain some sort of evil in them. As far as I could tell, I didn’t know how people were infected, but I couldn’t say they were safe. “There’s maggots in them.”_

_Her face lit up in joy._

_She nearly snatched the bag out of my hand and stuck her hand inside it. I heard her fingers pass through the teeth, as if caressing them. I heard the distressing rattle of the teeth inside. Quickly, her hand jutted back out and went inside of her mouth. She started to chew._

_There, I saw her teeth._

_Rather, her tooth. It was the same shape as those found within a human jaw and had the same slightly marbled texture of a healthy teeth, but there were no discrete segments between them. It was all just one, solid tooth, extending from her molar to her eyeteeth and back again, bleached a startling, unnatural white._

_I watched her chew on the maggots, heard the splitting of their shells, and she swallowed gleefully._

_“Snacks!” She remarked to me, clearly savoring it._

_Without another word, she turned around and just … left. There were no signs that she had ever been there. When I went to the front desk to demand an explanation from my wife, I’d found that she had been out to take lunch and hadn’t seen anyone there at all._

_Since she came in, I haven’t had a single more case of maggots. All just the general. Wisdom teeth and cavities and root canals. It’s slower, too, wife’s thinking about going back to work again._

_I can’t say I miss it much._

_I thought I should report this to someone. I don’t think a crime’s been committed, exactly, and it isn’t as if I’m – a few nightmares aren’t something worth commenting on, normally._

_I just._

_I know you do research here._

_It’s silly, right, it’s silly that this is what’s bothering me, after seeing maggots crawling around in people’s gums, that this is what’s keeping me up at night. This is the thing I want answers for._

_I just want to know what she’s doing with the teeth._

_Statement Ends._


	4. Cross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief discussion of self-hatred on Jon's part.

“Always nice to see the Entities working hand-in-hand, isn’t it?” Jon muttered in disgust as he turned the remaining statement over. He didn’t particularly want to see the words again. The recorder kept playing, but Jon figured it would shut off if it really wanted to.

“Might be where Dr. Elliot’s anatomy students got their teeth.” He checked through the research notes. “As it happens, in mid-2014, Dr. Machen’s dentistry practice closed. Reason cited is … _unhygienic_ office standards. The building has been repurposed for a clothing boutique. In examining her ability as a dentist, several old online reviews painted her as a professional, if somewhat mechanical, member of the dental profession. Dr. Machen has since declined for an interview. However, according to her LinkedIn page, she has since started up work at a Welsh medical school. Specifically …” Jon made a noise in the back of his throat. “This semester she’s teaching Dental Examination, Oral Pathology, and … Forensic Entomology. Unusual.” 

Templeton squeaked in pleasure next to him.

“Isn’t it, Templeton? _Very_ unusual, the maggot professor,” he cooed, unbothered by maintaining his composure when it was just him and the rat in his office. Jon thought fondly that it was nice to finally have some appreciation around here. Nobody appreciated the little work that Jon did – namely, continuing the purpose of the Institute, for better or for worse. Paranormal investigation.

Templeton had made himself comfortable on Jon’s desk, now. Jon had considered leaving him at his flat, but he happened to live in a basement flat that got quite cold and musty during the day. He had thrown on his coat and had been about to leave when Templeton had looked at him with mournful eyes. Jon _had_ put him next to the window in his bedroom, but that didn’t seem enough to appease the rodent.

So. Templeton was sitting in his office, happily gnawing away under the incandescent lights. Jon wasn’t entirely certain that it wasn’t the grief encouraging him to keep Martin’s rat content.

It hadn’t even turned seven in the morning yet, but Jon hadn’t slept last night. He had figured that, if his insomniac tendencies were flaring up again, he might as well take advantage of them and get some work done.

That never really boded well for his physical health. His leg injury always flared up when he didn’t sleep. Jon had barely been able to walk that morning, which meant that it was going to be a day for the cane. It’d been difficult to get inside the Magnus Institute with his cane, his normal bag, and a rather large rat cage lodged underneath one arm. Particularly when the lift was still out.

When Jon had sat down at his desk, he had exhaustedly vowed that he was not going to get up again that day. He was going to spend all day at the Institute – perhaps all night, too.

It was … easier to be alone in the Institute than it was in his own flat, anyway.

Loneliness hadn’t really affected Jon much. He had spent most of his life alone, certainly, but he had rarely felt _lonely._ Being alone suited him spectacularly. Alone to obsess, alone to work, alone to read, alone to live. He was aware that he was prickly and nasty, and being eternally alone led to certain consequences, but they seemed worth it for all the benefits.

Last night, though, it had hit him. The sensation of being alone. It had been cold.

There were probably only a few people in the world who liked him, and none moreso than Martin Blackwood. Martin, for how poorly Jon had treated him in the past, still _liked_ and _needed_ and _wanted_ Jon. Had been devastated when he thought Jon wasn’t going to pull through his coma.

More than the loss of someone who liked him, Martin hadn’t _deserved_ to die that way. Jon had gone and abandoned him by being functionally dead for six months, and then he had continued to disappoint him by letting him go along with Lukas’ plans. Guilt had filled Jon’s every pore as he paced his flat well into the dawn. He found every possible explanation that he could use to blame himself for this and internalized it, _felt_ it.

He had felt like the walls were closing in around him – that he’d only been biding his time for the past couple of years, fighting against a rapidly approaching expiration date. If he’d just given up and died when Prentiss had first attacked the Archive, how much difference would it have made, _really?_ Perhaps the others would still be alive. Perhaps Martin would still be alive. Perhaps Jon’s life came at the cost of killing those he cared for.

It hadn’t been a particularly healthy mindset. When the sun finally rose, Jon felt weak and hungry. If he was going to deal with the rest of this day – and perform the only act of justice that he was capable of, finding out what had killed Martin Blackwood and hurtling himself with a suicidal recklessness at it – then he needed to feed.

The statement wasn’t particularly as fresh as he would have liked, but it would do. And he hated to admit it, but he noted how the pain in his leg seemed to evaporate in a decidedly abnormal fashion when he Fed. When he had finished the statement, Jon had stood up to test himself and found that he hadn’t required the cane at all.

Troubling.

To distract himself, Jon stuck his fingers inside Templeton’s cage. The rat scampered over to investigate and sniffed at his index tip. Jon smiled at the soft, sweet moment between him and the creature. Perhaps Templeton wasn’t intrinsically recognizing him as the monster Jon felt he was.

Then Templeton bit him and Jon yanked his finger back, swearing. “Damn _vermin,”_ he accused, and then the tape recorder shut off. “Bastard,” Jon hissed at the device. Everybody was against him.

Jon filed the recording adequately and put his hand on his office door. He reached for his cane by the coat rack and leaned on it. Jon wasn’t going to admit that reading statements, that feeding, took away some of his physical pain – because if he admitted it, then that made it real. And Jon didn’t need another temptation. He was barely clinging to tendrils of humanity as it was.

The inside of his own office was immaculate. Outside, the hallway was littered with dark scorch marks still. Facilities was meant to come in later and clean it, but everyone sans Archives employees had a few days off.

The Archives were the only department permitted back in – due in no small part, Jon supposed, to either Lukas’ or Elias’ doing. They didn’t particularly care about the Archive employees’ pulmonary health, he figured. The smell of smoke lingered about the hallways, and it made Jon dimly crave a cigarette. 

He walked further down the corridors, his cane tapping against the concrete flooring. Perhaps Elias was there already, settled back in at the office. Yes, the implication at the morgue had been that Elias would speak to them as a group, but Jon already knew he was going to be spearheading this operation. He _had_ to. He would refuse to take a backseat when it came to solving who killed Martin.

Before he got to Lukas’ (Elias’?) office, Jon had to pass Martin’s. He stopped outside of it and looked inside the window in the door. His mouth popped open in shock.

It looked like a different sort of disaster had struck Martin’s office – a tornado, perhaps.

Jon raised an eyebrow and pushed down the handle to investigate. Inside, Martin’s chair was thrown against the door and partially broken. He had to put an extra ‘ _oomph’_ of effort to push the door past it, and the remains squeaked against the ground.

Loose papers and tape recorders were scattered everywhere. On Martin’s desk, on the floor, on every visible surface. What captured his attention first was the wall, if only for the fact that there was a tape recorder sticking out of a hole punched through it.

He reached up and wrapped his fingers around the small black box. It was really lodged in there. Someone had thrown the recorder with enough force that it’d gotten _stuck_ there. With a grunt and a small shower of plaster, Jon tugged it out of the wall. The tape had cracked right down the center, rendering it useless. He pulled the pieces apart and winced.

 _Someone,_ Jon thought to himself, _was having a bit of a tantrum in here, weren’t they?_

But who? And when? Jon couldn’t imagine that the firefighters would have decimated the place so thoroughly, and he wasn’t sure who else would have reason to enter Martin’s office. Lukas didn’t seem the tantrum sort. Elias was another possibility, but that didn’t answer the question of _why._

He turned towards the rest of Martin’s office. Martin’s work computer, an archaic sort of thing with a gigantic monitor, was laying on the floor. The screen was shattered into spiderweb-like fragments. His jacket – an awful sort of windbreaker that had gained prominence in the 1980s, and was mostly composed of a sickly aquamarine color and blocky magenta shapes – was wrapped in the wheels of the destroyed office chair. There weren’t any obvious signs of a fire, which Jon privately thought odd – Martin’s body had _clearly_ been badly burned in the morgue. Had he made it out to the hallway before succumbing?

Well. That was the point of it, wasn’t it? He was standing in the room where Martin Blackwood died. Or close enough to it.

Impossible to know whether he’d actually gotten out of his office before he perished for now. And Jon wasn’t sure if it really mattered.

Jon looked over the walls. They were empty and bare, as was Martin’s desk. No sign of the vivid personality that he’d come to expect from Martin Blackwood (perhaps prior to his assistantship with Lukas, but still). The largest show of personality was the vintage windbreaker, wrapped in the wheels of the office chair.

The sort of suffocating loneliness, the kind he’d felt at Schopenhauer’s pub and his own flat, started to fill him again. It bloomed in him so entirely that Jon couldn’t shake the image of his lungs being pushed out of the way, of being squashed so thoroughly that he couldn’t hope to draw breath in. Flattened by nervous. Daggers started to dig into Jon’s skin. _Panic attack,_ Jon thought to himself, _rational, normal, you’re not alone, you’re not the only man in existence, please, breathe, stop making such an utter fool of yourself, you ridiculously useless man, how could you live when someone like Martin Blackwood died –_

The mess in the office only served to render it feeling _tinier,_ like he was being _squeezed,_ there were footsteps just _outside,_ people, he wasn’t the only man in the entire universe, _salvation_ –

“Nobody’s ever called me a people person, Elias,” a familiar old voice, the voice of a grizzled middle-aged man, complained. The footsteps were low and on the larger side. Jon heard a strange squeak with every step. Wellies? Above that, he could hear the click of Elias’ immaculately polished shined-up shoes. Elias had unusually small feet and walked delicately. “I hardly think the boy not liking me counts as you winning. I never meant for Martin to _like_ me.”

They were arguing just outside of the office, now. Jon looked around at the mess before bolting underneath Martin’s desk to hide. _To eavesdrop,_ he corrected himself with dignity. _Not to hide._ After a moment’s pause, Jon snatched his cane out of sight from the door window.

“You’ve seen the file the Archivist sent. Martin did not trust you. Why am I meant to believe that he would do a word you say? I win. Vacate my office immediately. You’ve made it smell like wet dog.” Elias sounded frustrated. Jon could see the shadows of their silhouettes on the ground inside the office door. They were facing one another. Elias was much shorter than the taller, larger shadow. Even despite his diminutive height, Elias seemed to have a certain control of the situation that the other man lacked. Jon saw the outline of a beard on the larger man, distinct and bushy, and … _oh._

God, he’d been so stupid. The bartender. Lukas. _Of course._ His grief had distracted him _already,_ he hadn’t been able to think clearly, but of _course_ that bartender was the enigmatic Peter Lukas. That was Jon’s first formal meeting with the man.

“It doesn’t particularly _matter_ what you believe. I haven’t won, you haven’t won, things stay as they are.” His voice rose a half-pitch, questioning. “You know, nobody ever said it had to be _Martin … “_

“Who else did you have in mind?” The penny dropped for Elias, and he let out a sharp, quick laugh. “ _Jon?_ Please, be my guest. I’d hand over the Institute _and_ the clothes off my back if you somehow managed to recruit _Jon.”_

“You know, you don’t actually know everything.”

“I do, actually.” His voice was whimsical. “Part of the job description.”

“ _Bleh._ Haven’t changed over the years, have you?” Lukas asked, though it wasn’t said with the kind of warm fondness Jon would expect from old companions. This was no warm, grandfatherly sea Captain. This was a man who had been through hell on a storm and had come back to a petulant child and a wife he didn’t particularly like. “I’m staying. I’ll let you stay too, if you’d like. We’ll make a rotation schedule for the office I’ll get Martin to – ah, damn. Get one of the library workers to make it, I guess.”

“We are _not_ staying in the same office. You’ve already made the place feel like it’s in the middle of nowhere. I feel like I’m seeing everything through a bloody _fog.”_

“Part of the job description.”

“Get _out.”_

Lukas let out a shuffling sigh when Elias hissed his command. “Fine. This place is too crowded for my tastes during the day. I’ll just pop around during night and see how we’re coming along, then? And I’ll keep doing what I’m doing, and everything will be right as rain.” Elias was silent, clearly not desperately pleased with that arrangement. Lukas, for what it was worth, made a pleased grunt of success.

“Look at me. This is conflict management, is what it is.” His voice went softer, only meant for himself. “Don’t think I like it very much.”

There was a scoff of disgust, and then the light click of well-to-do shoes. Jon paused for a second, waiting for the rhythmic clunk of middle-aged fisherman boats, and didn’t hear anything. He looked out from under the desk to see that Lukas’ silhouette had disappeared from the door anyway. _Yes,_ he supposed that made sense.

All this talk of winning and trust and _him_ was enough to send his head spinning. Not only did he have to concern himself with Martin’s death, but Lukas wanted him to do … _something._ Something related to what Martin had _been_ doing.

At the very least, that seemed easy enough to prevent. Not listening to a damn thing that Lukas had to say to him for a start. He didn’t know what hold Lukas had had over Martin, but Jon was _not_ going to help him. There just wasn’t a chance. He had too much to do otherwise – things that involved helping people, saving the world, generally things that the Lonely _didn’t_ get involved with.

The self-reassurances didn’t stop the nerves crawling up his spine. The pain in his leg had returned. He pushed himself up and let out a soft sigh. _A decent breakfast of teeth maggots,_ he thought to himself wryly, _and a game of tug-of-Archivist for lunch, evidently._ Better to work for the Eye than the Lonely, because the Eye, at least, gave him real power. The Lonely only promised it.

It only took a few seconds for Elias to be at Martin’s door again. Although Jon considered darting back under the desk, Elias immediately made eye contact with him through the window.

Well. Shit.

Jon crossed over the broken bits of chair and opened it to greet his boss. As if it were entirely normal for him to be in someone else’s utterly ruined office, Jon gave Elias a wan smile. There was the urge to confront him, of course _– why was gaining Martin’s trust considered ‘winning’, Elias? Why was finding out about Martin’s trust so important that you had me ransack his flat? How do you know Lukas?_ “Can I help you?”

Elias considered him a moment, his eyes drawn into an introspective look. Jon’s heart beat a little faster in his chest, afraid, and he couldn’t help but think that Elias could see that, too. He knew Elias couldn’t exactly read his mind, but sometimes … it _felt_ like he could.

“Your office,” Elias muttered through gritted teeth, and walked away without a word.

Basira and Daisy were already in Jon’s office when Elias arrived, Jon no more than a few steps behind him. Basira raised an eyebrow as Jon walked in. Behind Elias’ back, Jon raised his hands in an international _I’ve-got-no-idea_ gesture. The door carefully shut behind him. Daisy was sat on Jon’s desk, hand resting on Templeton’s cage. Templeton nibbled at his water container, causing it to rattle slightly against the metal cage.

Elias walked a few steps away from the desk and let out a deep, aggrieved sigh. His back was facing them as Elias looked at Jon’s filing cabinets. He folded his hands behind his back in thoughts.

“I just wanted to let you know that the mortician told me Martin passed quickly, without much pain. I know we’re all grieving – “

“Can we not.” Basira’s voice was short. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Daisy raise a hand from Templeton’s cage and place it on the top of Basira’s thigh from where she was sitting on the desk. A wordless warning. Jon couldn’t help but agree – they didn’t want to antagonize Elias, not now. “Just say what you’ve got to say and get it over with.”

The look Elias shot over his shoulder was menacing. For what it was worth, Jon agreed with Basira. Elias was not human and could not soothe human problems. Hearing Elias’ empty words would do nothing but hurt. Templeton scurried around in his cage, ignorant of the tensions in the room.

“Very well. I’ll tell you what you want to know. Firstly, Jon, I went ahead and scheduled burial arrangements on your behalf. He’ll be buried sometime in the next few days, and then that matter will be put to rest.” Elias informed him vaguely.

Jon nodded a few more times than really necessary, trying to shake off the persistent ringing that had just erupted in his ears. _Buried._ He thought to himself. For a second, his chest felt liked it had caved in, and he couldn’t force his lungs to inflate. _Buried. That’s where they’re putting him. He’s – he’s -he’s claustrophobic, you can’t do that to him. He’ll suffocate._ When he looked up again, he saw that Daisy had fixed her gaze on him levelly.

It was the panicked thoughts of a man who hadn’t received closure. Jon forced himself to stifle them. Martin needed to be _buried,_ he told himself bitterly, because he was _dead._ Dead people _got_ buried. They weren’t fussed about it. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to ask details about it just yet.

“Secondly, in discussion of the actual fire itself.” Basira leaned over the desk and reached for a notepad and a pen. The pad was rested on the top of her knee as she started to jot down a few quick notes. “As you might imagine, it was caused by a member of the Cult of Lightless Flame. A new initiate, one that hasn’t caused much trouble. It must have been their first day out, in a matter of speaking. I have people out trying to determine where they are – though, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t _really_ matter.”

“Doesn’t really matter?” Basira’s pen suddenly went through paper. “They tried to burn down the Archives.”

“Ought to buy them a drink,” Daisy murmured softly.

“No, because they were merely an … accessory. A _distraction,”_ Elias explained. He had turned back to face them. His shoulders rested against one of the many bookcases in Jon’s office, half-full of binders containing statements. It was still relatively _un_ organized, though there were really more important matters at the moment. “Who knows why they agreed to do it, but I imagine they took some personal … freedoms with the project. The dead Institute employees all had large families, or were getting married next month, or were community leaders – I imagine killing them had some appeal, though, on its own, not worth attempting to burn down the Institute over.”

It was probably a bad sign that Jon found himself nodding in understanding and moved on completely. “Was there much damage to the Institute?”

“Basic structural damage. As you might imagine. The lift will be out for a few days longer. You’ve got my apologies on that, Jon, I see you’ve brought your cane today.” Elias reached into his pocket for his phone and started scrolling, as if looking for a list. “Mostly, personal effects from desks and lockers. Family photos, items of that nature. The library was untouched, likely because even the Desolation isn’t stupid enough to touch a valuable resource like that.”

“There’s plenty of better places to take away things people love than the Institute.” Daisy pushed herself into Jon’s chair, sitting cross-legged. Jon put a hand on her shoulder in comfort – though for him or herself, he didn’t know exactly. He wondered why Daisy’s shoulder was trembling before realizing it was his own hand. “Would’ve been a bad target, if they just wanted to appease their Entity. Nobody really _cherishes_ the Institute.”

“As I said, a distraction for the main event.” Elias held up one finger. “Martin.”

 _“_ Which leads us back to the question we asked you yesterday. _Who_ killed Martin?”

Elias pursed his lips. Silence filled the room. Jon found his gaze drifting to Templeton, but he saw from the corner that Basira never dropped her gaze from Elias’ face.

“I don’t know.”

Although Jon was expecting an erupting cry of ‘ _bullshit’,_ he heard nothing. Basira’s gaze only intensified, if anything. “Try again, O Mighty Eye.”

The feigned softness on Elias’ face did him no favours. “Truthfully, I don’t know. I’m examining things now in an attempt to determine evidence. With the fire going on, I couldn’t _see_ the events that occurred here. Just a wall of fire. However, I do have larger matters to attend to than Martin’s death. I’m not particularly fussed about finding the culprit. Instead, I’m trying to determine what happens next.”

“Sorry, you’re not _fussed_ about it!?” Jon asked. “We can hardly just sit on our hands and – _n-not_ do anything when Martin’s been killed.”

Softening face turned sardonic, Elias shifted his gaze to the Archivist. “In the grand scheme of things – with the end of the world at risk – does playing Hercule Poirot _really_ matter?”

Jon surged forward. He didn’t know what his plan was, particularly with a desk in between him and Elias, but he wasn’t thinking rationally. No, as soon as the question left Elias’ lips, Jon was seeing red. A noise erupted from his throat that sounded eerily close to a growl. He stood up from his chair and stepped across it, already picturing his hands going around Elias’ neck. _The bastard. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him._

Before he could get too far, there was a tanned hand around his wrist. Daisy. Jon looked down at her on the desk, and saw that she was glaring intently up at him. The sensation was clear. _Not now, Jon._

Basira had gone silent. Jon didn’t want to think that it was possible she agreed with Elias, at some level. _What’s investigating a murder when everyone’s lives are at risk?_ It would be the pragmatist solution, though Jon knew her heart wasn’t so far gone as to dismiss Martin completely.

Jon’s chest was trembling with the effort, and he was frighteningly close to breaking down again. He restrained himself and sat down in his chair. His hand went to his bad leg, rubbing up and down his thigh.

“Then what do you want me to do?” There was no way to stop the scratchiness in his voice. Jon fixed his gaze on the desk. “Sit on my hands?”

“Stay _away_ from Lukas. He can’t be trusted.” Jon wasn’t sure if he could name a single agent that _could_ be trusted. He shared a look with Basira, and she nodded at him. “Beyond that? I have my own work to do. Hard to get a productive day when you’re in prison.”

“Must really be awful,” Basira commented sourly, to which she received a withering glare. Elias folded his hands behind his back again and stepped outside, clicking his way down the hall. Jon felt himself half-collapse against his desk in exhaustion and despair. “ _What_ a wanker.”

“So we are going to do something, right?” Daisy asked, turning slightly to face Jon in his chair. “I mean, are we going to trust him that it wasn’t the Desolation?”

“I’m not trusting him, but – I have to agree with what he said. What happened doesn’t sound like the Desolation to me. The Cult of the Lightless Flame took a _big_ risk in lighting this place up, to … what, exactly? Kill a man that’s been groomed by the Lonely for the past six months? Not exactly a _big_ personal loss to the community.”

 _“Basira,”_ Jon groaned. He was starting to feel physically nauseated. To his credit, Basira did look somewhat apologetic.

“Sorry. No. I think he’s right. It was a bit of fun for the Cult of Lightless Flame, but someone else was running the show.” Basira sighed and pressed her hand against her cheek. “It isn’t as easy as crossing off Entities, is it? Every agent of the Entity follows it differently. Follows a different tune to the same thing.”

A silence fell among Jon’s small office, punctuated only by Templeton quickly tearing apart newspaper. _You probably would have been killed had the Desolation really wanted to hurt Martin,_ Jon thought sullenly, _sorry about that._

“No.” He agreed finally. “But there are some that I think we can definitively cross off the list. Every avatar interprets their Entity differently, certainly, but you can’t exactly read _Alice in Wonderland_ and think it’s about Sumerian hieroglyphic structure, can you?” Reaching for the notepad, Jon wrote down fourteen entities. After a moment’s pause, he added the additional fifteenth.

“Not the Hunt,” Daisy remarked first. “Ended too quickly. Or the Buried. An office is basically endless to the Buried.”

A cross.

“Not the Eye,” Jon added, “For obvious reasons.” Cross.

“Not the Lonely, for the same obvious reasons.” Cross.

“Vast,” Basira mumbled, shaking her head. “Wouldn’t make sense.” Cross. Jon’s pencil squeaked on the paper.

“Corruption’s not really one for fire, are they?” Jon asked hypothetically, scratching his head, before agreeing with himself. Cross. “Or the Dark.” Cross.

“Doesn’t really fit the modus operandi for the Spiral, either,” Basira continued, “And I don’t think they’d really want to edge in on Helen. He still had most of his skin, so probably not Stranger, then.” Cross and cross.

There was a pause, before Jon added weakly, “And we’re all still standing here, so not the Extinction’s first mark, I don’t think.” He crossed it out.

After a few more seconds of silence, Daisy asked quietly, “What’s left, then?”

Jon looked at his list. “Slaughter, End, Web.”

They all stared at one another in silence, unable to refute it. And hell, Jon thought, maybe they were being too rigid about this to begin with. But it was an idea. A hope.

He stood and stared at it, throat dry.

“Three of us, three entities,” Daisy remarked, and Jon shook his head at _that_ implication.

“No. We’re not doing –“ He saw a flash of barely restrained anger in Daisy’s eyes. _Doesn’t look particularly good for a man to be telling a woman, much less a woman like Daisy Tonner, what to do, isn’t it?_ Jon looked at her sympathetically. “I’m simply saying it wouldn’t be the best choice for us to go toe-to-toe against agents _alone_ at the moment.”

That seemed to assuage them. Jon cleared his throat. “I think you two ought to find an agent of the Web. Talk to them. Even if they’re not the ones that organized this entire mess, they might have a pulse on their Entity better than we do. They can at least give an _idea_ if Martin’s death could be seen as an advantage.”

As to whether an agent of the Web would really help them was something altogether. Nevertheless, Basira and Daisy nodded and Jon figured that even agents weren’t immune from being convinced by sheer force and intimidation. Jon had seen that personally. 

Jon already had an idea about which one he’d investigate. Or which one, he supposed. He was pleased that it was working out this way, as it happened, because he’d rather not sit in the Archives overnight and listen to tales of spiders. “And if they’re working together, the Desolation and whoever … there’s got to be a trail of collaboration. Some sort.”

“And you?” Basira asked, shifting her weight to one foot. Jon already got the feeling she’d be spearheading the investigation into the Web. There were already gears turning in her mind, and Daisy was watching her intently. “How will you investigate the Slaughter _and_ the End?”

“Oh, you know,” Jon remarked, a sort of bitter acceptance creeping into his face. “Just ruining the ties I have with my few remaining friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update, this time a double-feature!   
> Chapter 3: Teethache had the double benefit of being a bit shorter, entirely consisting of a statement, and rather CW-Heavy, so I decided to split it up.  
> It's interesting to write in TMA, because a lot of the characters' motivations are rather layered (especially Bouchard) - he's got his own private, personal motivations (as we see at the end of S4) and those he shares with the others (generally, not wanting the Institute destroyed). The Archive workers all have their personal allegiance to Martin, their concern for the future ahead, and making sure that they don't fall victim to any Entities themselves.   
> Either way, thank you to everyone who's read, written comments, or left kudos! My work schedule is hectic at best so it's always lovely to sit down and read them to see what people think. <3 Next chapter comes on Sunday, time to meet with the End- and Slaughter-touched!


	5. The Slaughter's Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Jon's self-hatred, brief discussion of depression and suicide

Initially, they had wanted to go to a pub to get drinks.

Jon had remembered his last experience in a pub, had felt the cold shiver run across his back again, and had asked – _in a tone just barely clinging to dignity –_ if they could go out to dinner, he’d pay, even, he just didn’t want to go to a pub. Getting drunk on its own wasn’t entirely out of the question, but Jon knew that he’d never be able to keep warm sitting on a pub stool. Maybe ever again.

Melanie and Georgie had taken it as Jon’s usual raging misanthropy … and a little bit of grief, and relented, and they had stayed in with the vow that they were going to let Jon get as drunk as he wanted.

He had wanted to be cooler about this entire operation. Being manipulative and monstrous was one thing, but being manipulative, monstrous, and emotionally needy was another. Gathering information was meant to be covert. He’d shown up at their flat just short of evening, had knocked, and had waited.

 _D’you feel like getting some drinks?_ Jon would ask, and then emphasize, _As friends,_ and then he’d make an awkward stutter and say, _Not that I’d even think about asking you out, obviously, I just meant not-as-work,_ and it would be pitiful and endearing and they didn’t even have to know what happened. That Martin died, that the Institute burned. He could frame it as professional curiosity. 

The story hadn’t precisely made the news, and Jon didn’t have to bare his emotions to them in order to obtain information about the respective Entities they’d been brushed by. A perfect rationale.

As expected, things hadn’t gone according to plan. Georgie had opened the door curiously and had made a flippant remark ( _Jon, it’s 2019, you really don’t show up unannounced to people’s flats anymore),_ and then Jon had started to feel his shoulders trembling. Before he could help himself, genuine tears started to prick the corners of his eyes as he tried desperately to plug them.

There was something about being out of the Archives that rubbed him raw. Being away from Basira and Daisy, consummate professionals, being thrust out into the cold, and Jon found himself actually crying as he looked at Georgie. “Martin’s dead,” he had choked out, and Georgie’s mouth had dropped open.

That had been three drinks ago, and Jon had daresay he’d almost forgotten the nefarious reason why he’d come here in the first place. At the time, it had seemed like heaven – someone touched by the End _and_ the Slaughter, living together? He’d just pop by, ask a few short questions (they would absolutely mind, they had both made it very clear that they didn’t want to discuss either, but Jon had little option _),_ and be on his way.

While the plan had seemed very neat, Jon had forgotten he’d had very raw feelings that he wasn’t sure he’d ever get a chance to deal with. Grief. This death had hit him harder than the others.

Georgie kept his tumbler full of whiskey. Melanie was sat next to him, dark glasses matching the mass of dark braids framing her face. Her hand was on his knee, rubbing calm circles into his trouser leg. Jon had thrown his cane haphazardly on the sofa. “Elias said he would handle the burial arrangements,” Jon replied miserably to nobody in particular, just letting his thoughts ramble. He was not entirely sober. “But – should I? I got the impression Elias didn’t intend for anybody to go, I don’t even know where it’s going to be, I mean, it’s hardly as if it’ll be a big showing, but I – to let _Elias_ arrange it, seems – ”

“Shitty,” Melanie finished. “Jon, do you think you can? I mean, with everything else going on?”

He thought about it. “I don’t know.” It was the honest answer. “I’ve never – I don’t know what he’d want, is he even _religious, I, Christ …”_

“Well, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise,” Georgie considered, “Say what you want about him – Elias will make it so you don’t have to worry about one detail.”

“That sounds like sweeping it under the rug.”

Georgie sent a look to her girlfriend that Melanie didn’t precisely see, but she punctuated it with a clearing of her throat. Melanie frowned and nodded at the larger woman. 

“No. No, you’re right. With everything else going on, I can’t exactly add funeral arrangements to my list of things to be doing.” Jon reached forward for another drink of his whiskey, and it burned down his throat, but at least it was warm and he had company. The fire was going on the main room, and it was so … cozy. He let out a stilted laugh. “Haven’t even been around to see you both. How are you – I mean, how are you _doing?”_ It was addressed more to Melanie than to Georgie, and she reached up to press her glasses back.

Melanie paused to think of an honest answer. “Better. It’s sort of nice, you know? Learning how to get around. _Frustrating,_ don’t get me wrong, but it’s nice to have normal problems. Nice to have my head about me again. Nice to actually like waking up in the morning.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Georgie smile and stare down at her lap. _They’re cute,_ Jon thought to himself on a whim. _You’ve certainly moved up, Georgie. Bet Melanie won’t stand you up on a date because she got into a row with a bookshopkeeper._

“Have you thought about what you’re going to … do?” Jon asked politely. “Not that I’m rushing you along, obviously, recovery is your _first_ priority.”

Next to him, Georgie nodded stiffly. _Good save, Jon, but mind yourself._ “We’re fine for right now – “ Georgie answered in her stead, as soon as Melanie followed it up with, “Thinking about doing travel writing.”

“Travel writing?”

“Yeah. I mean, god, no, nothing _spooky,_ ever again. But I did like the travelling, before everything happened. And Georgie’s got to travel for her job sometimes, so I thought, why not – I don’t know. Might be interesting to see a travel blog from a blind person’s perspective.”

“Fancy watching the Admiral every now and then?” George asked kindly. The cat had made an entrance, purring as he approached Jon. The Admiral weaved in between his legs, tip of his tail almost dipping the inside of his whiskey glass. Jon leaned down with a tearstained chuckle to greet him. “He might like some company.”

If this continued, Jon was going to be running a regular menagerie in his flat soon enough. “It’s an honor,” he teased, reaching down to stroke the animal’s side. The Admiral leapt up onto his lap. “Right, I didn’t know you wanted attention when people _aren’t_ trying to record.” Georgie laughed at his light teasing, stroking the Admiral herself.

Still, the comfort of an animal was well-received. Jon had managed to stifle the tears when he’d gotten into the flat proper, but he knew his eyes were nonetheless more bloodshot than normal and there was a miserable thickness in his voice. It was perhaps the only difference about him physically.

Otherwise, it was hard to tell the difference between normal, faintly-frenzied Jon’s wrinkled, bedraggled clothing, his constant lingering smell of tobacco, and his haunted, paranoid look from abnormal, grief-stricken Jon’s wrinkled, bedraggled clothing, his constant lingering smell of tobacco, and his haunted, paranoid look.

He pet Admiral quietly for a few moments. A silence settled between the three of them as Jon felt his thoughts moving back to the man of the hour. Seeing Melanie and Georgie together, it wasn’t hard to think … well, about what could have been between Martin and him, he supposed. _Head in the game, Sims,_ Jon told himself stubbornly, _you’ve come here for information. Stop – stop being normal. Stop trying to talk about it like a normal human being. Stop it. You’re not normal, you don’t get this._

“He’s been, um, distant,” Jon admitted. “He’d been. I guess.” Reaching over, Jon knocked back the rest of his drink. _Slow down. You’re not twenty anymore._ Christ, even the little voice in his head was starting to sound like Martin’s. Right down to the whining. Jon looked down into his glass sorrowfully, as if he might find his friend in there.

“So, _what,_ you were less devastated?” Melanie asked in disbelief. She took another drink herself and leaned back in her chair. “Come off it, Jon, you two were close.”

He guessed they were. He just wasn’t sure how much that meant anymore. Martin had finally prioritized work over his friends, and while Jon could understand the reasoning behind it … it had hurt to know it. Especially when he had done the same, so many times. “Maybe.” Jon reached for his empty glass again. Before he could bring it up to his lips, Georgie put another splash in for him and he nodded appreciatively. “Hard to tell anymore. I just _wish_ I knew …”

_Knew what happened to him. Knew what Lukas wanted with him. Knew what I should be doing, for the world, for myself._

_Well, you could get half that information if you stopped moping, Jon,_ the somewhat disparaging Martin in his head told him, and Jon’s shoulders slumped further. 

“You’re taking this about as well as anyone could expect,” Melanie soothed. She had leaned over to touch his wrist. Georgie put another ice cube in his tumbler. “I know what you’ve been through. Really, the fact that you haven’t completely fallen to pieces is a fantastically good sign. You’re talking to people, you’re expressing _feeling_ – it’s good, Jon.”

It was a softer side to Melanie, now. Still recovering, Jon figured, that might’ve sedated her a bit, but she seemed perfectly cosy in Georgie’s flat. Happy. Less concerned with all the evil in the world, and Jon wondered if being with someone that didn’t feel fear made you more brave, too.

“They’ll catch whoever did this.” Georgie chimed in and Jon, in his inebriated state, couldn’t hide a wince. He hadn’t told them that they were suspecting at least _two_ Entities involved, hadn’t even told them that the Desolation had been the one to set the fire. It’d probably mean more to Melanie than Georgie … but Georgie would be angrier than Melanie. “Eventually. I mean, the research resources you guys have – “

“Elias doesn’t want to us to investigate Martin’s death,” Jon blurted out. “He doesn’t see the point in it.”

A steady silence filled the room. Georgie seemed stunned; Melanie less fazed. He supposed, with the experience that Melanie had, she wouldn’t be surprised at the enigmatic ways of Elias Bouchard. “What – but that – it’s a _murder,_ at the very least.”

Jon shrugged his shoulders, despondent. The whiskey slipped down his throat and he didn’t reach for it again. He tried to flex his powers, again, to simply _Know_ things, but nothing came to him. He wondered if the Knowing got deadened by alcohol. There’d be an idea. Giant Entity. Drunk. Could the Eye get bloodshot?

“But you’re still investigating.”

“Course we are, but not sure if there’s much to go on yet,” Jon sighed, bringing his fingers up to press against his eyes. His glasses were pushed up over his head as he did so. Somehow, it was easier to set his mind straight that way. “We’ll see what turns up. If anything.”

Jon could see between his fingers that Georgie’s gaze was fixed on Melanie. He couldn’t see well enough to note her expression, but he supposed it wasn’t anything good. This was bordering dangerously close on work talk.

And Jon was about to cross the line. The last swallow of alcohol hit him hard, and it tore away whatever inebriated comfort that he’d lost himself in for the past half hour.

“I’m not asking you to get involved,” Jon eventually started. When his hands wrapped around the tumbler again, he saw that Georgie had filled it up once more. He took a sip and coughed at the strength of it hitting him. _You seem to have gone straight past the fun part of alcohol,_ Jon thought to himself bitterly, _cheated. Now you’re just stupid and drunk._ “I’m not even asking you for _help,_ really – but I need --“

“Jon – “ Georgie’s voice held a soft warning in it.

But Jon was going to keep going. He had come here for a purpose, and he was going to see that purpose through, so help him _god._ It was an enjoyable night, full of soft fuzzy feelings and expressions of grief, but he had to perform his work. Sitting around crying was not going to suit _anyone._ It was _not_ going to give him closure for Martin. It was _not_ what Martin deserved.

He had to know. He had to _fix_ what had happened. Drunkenly, Jon leaned forward on his knees. One hand reached forward to rest on Melanie’s, and she turned her head around to stare at him behind dark glasses.

“But, Melanie, you’ve _had_ the Slaughter in you, and Georgie, you’ve at least spoken with an agent of the End, and that’s more than I can say for anyone else – “

“Jon, stop.”

“And you know I wouldn’t ask if it was just for the Archives’ sake, but it’s for Martin, and after everything I – after everything _he’s_ –”

Georgie had stood up from her chair, but Jon kept babbling on. He wasn’t going to get anything out of Georgie, but she didn’t get it, she didn’t understand, she’d never _been_ in the Archives. She didn’t know what it was like to be scared, that he couldn’t grant this one, small justice to Martin. Melanie knew what it was like to be so scared that you were _angry_ about it.

“Melanie. _Melanie,_ just think back.” Jon moved farther down the couch. He took his hand off her knee and moved it to her wrist, fingers circling around it delicately. Her face was indecipherable, staring straight ahead behind her black glasses. “You held it in you. Could what happened to Martin be in _any_ way connected with the Slaughter? Did you ever experience any anger _towards --_ ”

“Get out.” Georgie ordered suddenly. She was standing to the right of Jon, and reached down to hook her fingers on the inside of Jon’s collar. They’d always been the same height in Uni, but Georgie’d always been bigger than him (not that that was a particularly difficult feat) and he felt himself being pulled away. He tried to struggle against it, but drunk and exhausted, he wasn’t going to be putting up much of a fight. “Jon, I’m sorry for what happened to Martin, but get out. You’re going to upset her.”

Melanie’s lips opened, and Jon’s lips spilled into a wide, desperate smile. The tugging at his collar was growing more insistent. The fabric started to dig into his neck. “You’ve – you’ve thought of something. Melanie, tell me.” No words came out. Jon barely noticed the way Melanie’s hand was digging into the arm of the chair, or the way that her hand went to her leg to grip down hard. “Tell me.” He leaned forward with the tumbler in his hand, intense and unable to be dissuaded.

The ice cube in it started to shake, but Jon’s hands were perfectly still. “ _Tell me,”_ Jon growled, another quality coming into his voice – as if he were speaking from six inches above where he was seated. Next to him, the light on the table started to _hum_ from intensity.

“It doesn’t sound like something the Slaughter would sing,” Melanie confessed in a soft voice. She was staring at where Jon was sitting, but as Jon was pulled up and yanked away by his ex-girlfriend, her head didn’t track him. “Especially if the Desolation were involved. They don’t get along much. Which surprises … which surprised me, when I first ....” Jon’s tumbler fell to the floor as he struggled with Georgie, making soft grunts of exertion as she half-dragged him to the front door. “They like being _direct_ with the pain. Not setting a fire and running off.” When Melanie drew her finger away from her leg, Jon saw blood dot the tips of her nails. It was wiped off on her shirt without concern. “Fire is just so …” A pause, and then the next word was spit like venom. “ _Spineless.”_ Melanie hit the ‘ _ss’_ with a hiss.

Jon had been bracing himself in the front doorway as Georgie urged him further, looking half feral from how hard he was struggling against his ex-girlfriend. Melanie still sat in the chair, her hands now folded in her lap. “Georgie,” she uttered in a soft voice, “I think … I think I’m gonna go take a lie-down.”

“ _Yes, sweetheart,”_ Georgie responded with all the patience of someone in the process of shoving an intruder out of their home. Jon took a step backward out the door finally onto the concrete outside, and Georgie glared down at him from inside the warmth of her flat. Snow flurries circled around Jon, and he felt some of that precious warmth start to seep away. Even the warmth imparted from the booze started to leave him.

They’d broken up because Jon was a self-absorbed prick, according to Georgie. At the time, it’d been a devastating event in Jon’s life. Jon hadn’t had a wealth of human contact, and he’d met most of his friends through Georgie. Most of them continued their friendship with her, but not so much with him. He had earnestly cared for her, though the wisdom of his thirties informed him that Georgie’s presumption was not all that incorrect.

He had become a bit of a hermit for years, and then he finally got his Master’s. From there, it had been a bit of a loss career-wise. It wasn’t like he’d particularly _networked_ all that much. Jon had initially wanted to stay in academia for as long as he could.

But as a graduate student, socialization wasn’t necessary when one had an isolated office and forty hours of work to focus on. As a long-standing professor, socialization wasn’t necessary because tenure permitted one to dance in their skivvies on the front lawn if they so wanted. 

Unfortunately, the tasks required to go from graduate student to long-standing professor required a _lot_ of socialization, something that Jon had never particularly excelled at.

Clearly.

“ _Georgie,”_ he muttered drunkenly, trying to take a step forward, to do something to _fix_ this, “’m sorr-“

Georgie disappeared just momentarily to go up the stairs again, and Jon thought for one shining moment that perhaps she had changed her mind. Then she came thundering back down the stairs, thrust Jon’s cane into his hands, and without further announcement, the door was slammed in his face. 

Jon couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. He stared at the front of it drunkenly for some time. Part of his brain was triumphant – _Cross, cross, cross,_ it lauded, _Cross another off the list, only two more to investigate!_

The other, more human part of his brain was horrified at himself. He had made his friend, one that had already been through so much, remember it all once more. Get in tune with it.

Jon had become disturbingly good at ignoring horror. He stared at the door and shoved down the disgust at himself, shoved down the bitter self-hatred, and promised himself that when it was all over – that mystical happily ever after – he would come back and apologize.

Never mind that he didn’t believe in a happily ever after. He didn’t think it was ever going to be all over – at least, not that he would live to see it. Perhaps that would be his apology to them.

 _Don’t talk like that,_ Martin’s voice in his head chastised him stubbornly, _I need you around, Jon. You’re worth quite a lot to me._

When Jon turned away from the door, all that was left was a concerning numbness. A concerning lack of care. He wondered if that was a side-effect of his transformation or just a sign of his worthlessness. 

Jon didn’t know what he thought was going to happen. He didn’t want to _hurt_ Melanie, of course not. He _liked_ Melanie. It wasn’t like he expected to be able to ask for the information kindly, sweetly, like a normal human being, but he hadn’t wanted to compel. He hadn’t wanted to make Melanie tap into their worst fear about themselves.

And he’d left his phone inside. Great. At least he had his cane. Jon looked down at the sidewalk, then the cane, and started to walk. His leg hurt, and the cane at least helped with his balance.

Jon lingered on the street for a while longer, feeling sorry and hateful for himself, before turning around and starting to walk home. Some cabs passed him by, but Jon didn’t bother wasting his hand to hail one. _You don’t deserve cabs,_ Jon told himself bitterly, _you monster. Is there any part of you that’s human?_

At least he was walking without stumbling much. The last thing he needed was to trip and break his arm on a drunken walk home. Jon bundled his arm against himself in the cold. It was hard to get a clear, strategic thought against the drunken elephant currently taking a shit on his brain. Instead, the only thing that came to him were miserable condemnations at himself. He knew it wasn’t helpful.

It was later than he anticipated. Why did it always seem like he was walking home in the middle of the night? He was tired, too, but _you don’t deserve sleep_ ended any desire to rest. _Go on, then, you’re going to be a big selfish monster about everything. Work yourself to death, if it’s all you’re good for._

Christ, Jon remembered why he didn’t get drunk often. It gave the little voice inside his head that hated him some confidence. Jon physically shook his head as if to clear the thoughts from his brain. Those thoughts weren’t the kind, lovely ones that somehow took on Martin’s face, the one full of understanding and affection – these were his own, sharp and angular.

He saw a coffeeshop ahead. A little hipster thing, the kind that he would exclusively frequent in University and avoid like the plague in adulthood. It was open still, even as the little table and chair outside was slowly getting covered in snow. Jon took a look around. _Cars,_ he thought eloquently, _Aaaaaaand people. You’re fine. No Lonely Here._

Jon wanted something to sober up. Tonight, he would have to gather his thoughts together, perhaps even see if Basira had found anything. Except … _shit,_ his phone. He supposed he was using e-mail instead, as soon as he got back to his personal computer. Either way, he’d need some caffeine so he didn’t spend the rest of the night spitting insults at himself in the mirror.

Jon shivered outside the shop before stepping inside.

A nice large cup of coffee would warm him up, too. Jon was cold, and was displeased to see that it wasn’t much warmer on the inside of the coffeeshop. The door had been cracked open somewhat.

It also smelled like patchouli oil. Jon could see large vats of coffee beans behind the counter, as well as few twisted iron art-deco chairs dotted around the place. There was a large nude painting on the wall (which Jon found rather distasteful, but begrudgingly admitted it was artistically competent), and it was utterly empty, including the supposed barista at the front. No employees in sight.

Well. Utterly empty, except for two. Himself.

And Peter Lukas, sitting in the corner with a Styrofoam cup full of coffee. Two, actually, with one pushed towards the other chair sitting across from him.

“I just wanted a _coffee,”_ Jon muttered as a strong complaint. Lukas did nothing but push the Styrofoam cup towards him a little more. “I didn’t want to come here, and be harassed by some old sea … man. I _just_ want to sober up.”

“And here I was, thinking you’d like the company,” Lukas sighed, tilting his head back to stare up at him. His gray hair curled out from underneath his hat, matching the gray eyes currently piercing into him. He was frowning a little. “I’m never right about these things.”

Jon looked back over the counter. There was still some coffee brewing in the back, though Jon noticed there was frost rapidly starting to accumulate to the insides of the brewing machines. “And what did you do to the barista?” He demanded, as if interrogating a misbehaving child.

The shrug Lukas gave him was infuriatingly calm. “He looked like he could use a break.”

 _For fuck’s sake._ Jon groaned and walked over and snatched the Styrofoam cup of coffee. As expected, it was thoroughly cold and rather tasted like Lukas had put a salt lick in it. He was still dressed as Jon had seen him, earlier that day and again the night before.

A thick gray woolen coat over a sweater, his beard reaching down towards his chest. It was unkempt and ruly. What was worse, there was something definitively _kind_ about his eyes, like he meant no harm in the world. Jon hated how he felt _pleased_ to see him when the knew that Lukas only wished him harm. Jon hated how he felt _understood._ Like he _agreed_ with all the thoughts going through Jon’s head.

Perhaps it was dangerous to harass an Avatar, but Jon didn’t care much for his own safety at the moment. He needed information, and Lukas had it, and – and maybe that would calm the storm brewing in his head.

“Right. While we’re here, then, while you’re just – _following_ me whenever I try to take a sip of _anything_ in London,” Jon accused him, “You’re going to answer a few questions for me about what the _hell_ is going on.”

“Angry. Tch. I don’t see why. I know it’s rare, but I really had no part in this. I was just as devastated when Martin was killed as you were, I promise.”

“I’m sure.” Jon’s voice wasn’t amused. “What were you planning on doing with him?”

“ _Sorry,”_ the old sailor returned, holding his hands up in a helpless gesture. “You would not _believe_ how annoyed Elias would be if he found out I told you, and he’s already irritating to begin with.”

“Fine. What were you planning on doing with me?”

“I’m just trying to help. What have I done to you, really?”

“Take away my friend and feed me terrible beverages.”

“Now, now, now,” Lukas sighed out. “I didn’t take _anybody_ away from you, Archivist. Poor Martin was alone. You were all but brain-dead in that hospital bed, weren’t you? I’m not saying it was your _fault,_ but I gave Martin something to do. Especially after his poor dear mother died, he had so many _messy_ feelings that he didn’t know what to do with. I just,” he snapped his fingers with a sly smile. “Took them away for him. I was helping. I really don’t think he would’ve stuck around for as long as he did if I weren’t there to take those awful feelings away.”

“You weren’t helping, you never _help,_ none of you bloody ever –“ Jon felt himself advancing forward across the table, and realized – even while drunk – that it _was_ very much not a good idea. Cold slate entered Lukas’ eyes. As Jon met his gaze, he was sure he heard the sounds of a rough ocean lapping at an old metal ship. The walls of the coffeeshop seemed less … real, somehow. Jon smelled seawater and storms. 

He backed away, pressing himself against the back of his chair. Everything settled back into place, and when he looked into Lukas eyes, he only saw a warm, soft grey, like a down blanket.

“ _Messy_ feelings that I’m sure you’re feeling right now. Come on, wouldn’t it be nice? Look at what trouble your emotions get you into. If you’d just been quiet and professional, maybe those two lovely young women would’ve helped you out. But, no, you had that _temper_ about you.”

Hating himself in his head was one thing. Hearing someone else, even someone as wretchedly evil as an avatar of an Entity, confirm his thoughts was another. Jon swallowed and hung his head. _See, you’re not actively self-hating, you’re being objectively analytical. You are, objectively, a waste of space._ He took another sip of the wretched coffee.

“I want to know who killed him. I –“ Jon took a slow breath, a deep inhale of his lungs. His voice was soft and Jon didn’t raise his head, instead keeping his eyes trained down on the table. “Do you know? Lukas. Peter, please.”

Lukas held up one thick forefinger and waved it at him, tutting. “I don’t think we’re quite that close yet, Archivist.”

“Call me Jon. _Please,_ between you and Elias, one of you _has_ to know something.”

Lukas tilted his head back and laughed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. He was laughing with an empty throat. “ _I_ certainly don’t know what he knows. He’s not very share-y, your boss, is he? Former boss. I think _I’m_ still technically _yours,_ maybe? _”_

It was becoming rapidly clear that Lukas wasn’t going to provide any sort of help at all, which meant that his lead – and was it a lead, really, if he could only cross off the Slaughter - had come at the cost of ruining two friendships. Just as he expected.

Despair sunk into him, and he raised his hand to press at the bridge of his nose. His other arm wrapped around his stomach, trying to soothe the aching pit that had erupted there. There was a lump in his throat. _Christ, pull yourself together._

“You’re not going to cry again, are you? Please don’t.”

“Bite me.” Hardly eloquent for a man who went to Oxford, but Jon’s head was swimming and he was getting nowhere. “I’m not helping you with _anything,_ Lukas. You might run the Institute for now, but _I_ know I’m important to you two, to do something, _somehow,_ so I know you won’t just – “ Lukas’ eyes met him again, and once again, Jon heard the surf crashing in his ears. There was the clanging of the bell. “Get rid of me. Or – or kill me. You _need_ me for something, so that’s my immunity.” 

“Well. I did try to help you out. I like to think I’m a little kinder than what Elias does to people he doesn’t like. I’ve only killed people with a pipe …” His companion paused in earnest thought as he started to count on his fingers. “Say. Would you count just the metal kind, or the wooden kind, too?”

“If you don’t have anything further to say, we’re _through_ here.” Jon leaned forward across the table again, his forehead almost brushing the rough wood. If he were lucky, he’d get a splinter. “Let me sober up in peace, Lukas.”

As if he were witnessing someone starting to make a scene in public, Lukas frowned. “So be it, Jon. You’ll come to my way, soon enough.” He raised his hand, and Jon thought he was going to snap his fingers as he did before.

Something _did_ snap. The coffee machine in the back, exploding from the quick-freeze that it had just underwent. Jon ducked, knees hitting the floor much more painfully than he would’ve preferred. He bucked to his side, his head resting half against the flooring and half against his arm. When he peered up again, Lukas was gone.

“Well,” A familiar voice clucked disapprovingly, “That’s going to make a bit of a mess, isn’t it?”

“Martin?” Jon mumbled in dazed confusion. He heard the door of the coffeeshop open with a loud creak. A tall, stout man with blond curls was leaving, and Jon _recognized_ his shirt, that was Martin’s _horrid green plaid_ shirt that Jon had openly mocked him for _years_ ago. “Martin!”

Pushing himself up to his feet, the entire world spun as Jon took hold the door before it shut. He braced himself against the cold metal of it as he looked up and down the street. “Martin!” Jon called again in the wind and snow.

There weren’t that many people out, but he had to be honest with himself as he searched. Whoever that was – Martin or no – couldn’t possibly have gone more than a few steps before Jon reached the door. Jon wasn’t sure what he had seen.

Sheepishly, he returned to the coffeeshop and picked up his cane. At least this little venture had done the trick – Jon felt remarkably sobered up. Even the thoughts in his head seemed to calm down as Jon was faced with this strange new mystery … this strange new apparition.

Jon looked down at his Styrofoam cup, saw that the coffee had completely frozen solid, before making his way to the door. Although the door had a fine layer of snow covering it, Jon didn’t see a handprint from where the person had departed.

Whoever it was, they were gone. If they were ever even there in the first place.

And it was time for Jon to go home and sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done! When I was first writing this piece, I didn't anticipate it to be quite so Lonely-heavy, but Lukas scenes really kept popping up. Thank you for everyone who's left comments/kudos'ed/or read the story! I always love to see how people are engaging with it. See you all next week!


	6. Breaking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Further discussion of self-hatred, the Lonely

“And you don’t know who it was?” Basira asked bluntly. They were all sitting in Jon’s office again. He wasn’t sure when he’d become _quite_ the social butterfly, and it wasn’t as if Elias couldn’t see them in here, but Jon supposed it was just an easy place to gather. Georgie’s flat had always had people in it back in University – strange kinds, to be sure, and all the socialization had usually led to Jon hiding in their room. Unfortunately, Jon saw few places to do as much in his office.

He was sitting in his chair, slumped back. His hair toppled readily over the back of the chair. It needed a trim. Badly. Thankfully, it was properly washed today, because Jon had stood in the shower with his forehead pressing against the wall for near on thirty minutes. It was definitely a cane day. The device rested against his desk. The lift in the building had yet to be repaired, and Jon did not want to mention how long it had taken him to go down three flights of stairs with a cane while hungover.

A glass of water with a rapidly dissolving fizzy tablet was in front of him, and right then, Jon was pretty sure he would give away another rib to keep it.

Daisy was sitting on his desk. She had taken Templeton out and was letting him scurry across her arms, back and forth. The rat was remarkably friendly to her. Jon wondered if Martin had trained it. Jon wondered if it was even possible to train rats. Templeton scampered happily from her shoulder down to her hand, reaching the treat Daisy had placed in it.

Staring at the ceiling, Jon shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he replied with a hint of irritation. “I was drunk, I was on the floor of the coffeeshop. I heard his voice, and then I saw him walk out. I don’t know.”

“Would it be completely out of line to suggest that it was just stress?” Daisy asked pointedly. “Grief-induced psychosis?”

Jon had considered that. Considered that for the little Martin-y voice in his head, too, not that he had told the others about it. He hadn’t wanted to worry them overmuch.

“If that’s the case, it would be a _hell_ of a time for it to come up. It’s not important, anyway. Not in the grand scheme of things. I’m okay, I’m not – Don’t need to be fussed over for it.” Jon reached for his water and took a sip of it, just trying to make the world stop shifting underneath him. It fizzled against his tongue. “You two turn up anything yesterday?”

“Hard to track down anything concrete on the Web. Just puppets.” Basira sighed, leaning against Jon’s office door. Her body partially blocked the window inset on it, which at least gave the illusion of privacy. He took another few sips of water. “Echoes, you know, vibrations. The agents – if there are even _that_ many, seems like the Web just takes who they want, borrows them for a bit, and then kills them off. Daisy did think of something, though, when we were finishing up listening.”

“Web likes to make these big elaborate plans. Planning an arson for a place this size, just to provide enough cover to kill someone you really want …” Daisy put Templeton down on the risk. He trotted over to investigate Jon’s water. “Just saying. It makes sense. Don’t ask me why the Web would want Martin dead, though.”

“I guess. The Web always seems like they’re working for a larger purpose, at the very least. At any rate, I can’t see why the End would go through that much effort for one man.” Jon drained the rest of his glass and set it on its side, to allow Templeton to sniff as he hopped off Daisy’s arm. He shuddered a little, feeling a chill run down his spine. “ _Euch._ It’s got to be the Web, doesn’t it? Of all of them.”

Basira shot him the rare smile, lightly teasing him. “Out of _everything,_ Jon, I can’t believe you’re still arachnophobic. You’d think you’d have gotten over it by now.”

“You can be scared of all of them,” Daisy pointed out in his defense, “To varying degrees. That’s what they’re meant for.”

Jon had to sit back and think of it. He’d never like spiders. Ever since that awful picturebook. But was it the one that sent him awake at night the most? The one that always lingered at the back of his mind, the one that terrified him for its possibilities, the one that he felt _crawling_ down his spine …

No, Jon considered, he was most scared of the Eye. But he was not going to dare mention that when Elias could hear him, wherever he was. He was not going to grant the man that satisfaction.

“They’ve got hair. Big ones,” Jon argued back, “They don’t look like they’re meant to have hair. They’re creepy.”

That got a chuckle out of Basira, and he leaned back in his chair again. A moment passed, and Basira came over to pick Templeton up in her hands. There was light-hearted banter between her and Daisy for a second: “Look at his little legs kicking!” “You’re not meant to hold him like _that,_ Basira, like this!” “He’s quite clean, for a rat. Sorry, Templeton, did that hurt your feelings? He’s all offended, Day, look.”

Jon let the conversation wash over him as he sat in silence. He needed to rest more. Although he had gotten some sleep last night, it didn’t feel like enough. Still didn’t clear the fog from over his mind.

When he opened his eyes again, he caught sight of a spiderweb in the corner of his office. It was shiny silver, almost luminous. _That_ wasn’t unusual. Jon rarely went anywhere without seeing the same just- _too-_ perfect spiderweb. He knew who it was from. It scared him. He couldn’t do anything about it. Ergo, he didn’t think about it and hoped it wouldn’t be a problem but now, Jon could see that it had rapidly transformed into a problem at the most inconvenient time.

His name was in it.

He almost thought he was losing his mind. But, no. As he looked closer at it, he could see that the name ‘J-O-N’ was placed directly in the center, as if stitched there. The letters were thick enough that it was clearly something intentional, and not just random happenstance – as if such a thing happened to Jon anymore, anyway.

“Um,” Jon asked awkwardly, “Is that my name in that web?”

The two stopped to turn around, both angling their heads to see where Jon was looking. “Yes,” Daisy remarked in stunned surprise. “Yes, I think it is.”

“Jon. Why is your name in the spiderweb?”

His voice went scratchy, and Jon could only go for a few words without clearing it. “Oh, you know. Just thought – might liven the place up a bit.” Was an agent of the Web _watching_ them, somehow? Or – _Martin?_ Jon didn’t know _how_ it could possibly be, but with the events of last night … could it be possible that this was his communication? _You know me, Jon,_ Martin’s voice whispered in his head, _I am frightfully good at sewing._ “Daisy, could you put Templeton back in his cage. Thanks.”

They all stared at the web, transfixed. Jon couldn’t gather his wits about him (not without his pulse sounding against his temples, anyway) for long enough to form a conclusion to this. Thankfully, Basira’s mind was shrewd. “So it’s the Web that killed him, then.”

“How …” Hollow. Dry. Jon rolled his empty water glass between his hands. “How do you figure? I find webs, everywhere I go. It’s a … charming side effect, I presumed, of the archivist position.”

“Yes, but it’s trying to threaten you, now, that you’re closing in.” There was a beat. “Why would it _give_ a toss about reaching out to you if it wasn’t the one that did it?”

“And now we know that it can get in the Archives,” Daisy added, “Somehow. If they’d trapped Martin in his office with webbing, he wouldn’t have been able to get out in time to save himself. Everything would’ve been burned off, too, none of the investigators would’ve found anything left.”

“I – maybe?” Jon considered. Regardless: “It’s the best explanation we’ve got. Still doesn’t explain how we’re going to track the agent down and ask.”

“We’ve got a few more research files left to go through. We’ve tracked down more elusive before. And if not,” Basira added, “They’re clearly reaching out to you for a reason. You keep sticking your nose into things, they’ll come to you.”

“Lovely.”

“I hate to say it, but we ought to tell Elias.” Both Basira and Jon’s head swiveled around to stare at Daisy. “I _know._ But if the Web is involved with this, then she already burned down the Archives once.” There was a blank stare as Basira and Jon watched. Daisy let out a noise of disgust. “People _died_ the first time, guys. People _other_ than Martin. If they need another distraction to get at Jon, people might die again. And, like it or not, Elias _does_ have a vested interest in keeping this place standing.”

That … was fair. Jon pushed himself up from the desk. It was like he’d shocked, or revolted, the hangover out of his system. Even his hangover didn’t want to be near Elias, Jon thought whimsically. He was getting peckish, though, this morning hadn’t been much more than his usual coffee. Something greasy would have to do – he was willing to think of it as a reward for dealing with his boss, for the day.

“I’ll go. You start reviewing the old tapes about the Web. If you see any messages left in the webbing, let me know.” Jon stuck his fingers in through the cage, to which Templeton investigated curiously. It had turned into a strange farewell gesture between them. Jon _had_ to stubbornly admit that he could understand why Martin kept a pet. “Wish me luck, won’t you?”

The walk to Elias’ office was short, and he saw the short man sitting huddled over his desk through the door window. His fingers were pressed against the bridge of his nose; both eyes were shut tight. It was not an unusual gesture for him.

When he’d first started working here and saw that, Jon had assumed that he’d gotten migraines. The dampness of the Archives with the blaring overhead lights and computer monitors would do that to a man.

Now, Jon couldn’t help but feel that Elias simply sat in such a way so he could See better. Elias put his head up to stare holes at him through the window before he even so much as squeaked, so Jon figured his assumption wasn’t too off the mark.

“No, Jon,” Elias remarked, scribbling something on a piece of paperwork as he let himself in. The office was usually … well, rather much like a man rapidly-approaching middle age’s office. There was an obnoxiously large wooden desk and squeaky leather chairs. Elias was flanked on either side by large filing cabinets that he’d never seen him open. Jon wondered if he had to.

Still, though, Lukas had been inhabiting the place for months beforehand and had added some touches. A large yellow raincoat was hanging up on the coatrack in the corner. That ship in a bottle was new.

Most noticeably, Bouchard’s usual office had a large window behind him. Before he had discovered Elias to be a conniving little bastard, Jon had always envied it. Jon’s office was small, cold, and half the wooden boards were ripped up to expose concrete.

This window took up most of the back wall. It was hemispherical in nature, dark metal muntins criss-crossing the transparent panes. It looked out into the library. The library had been miraculously mostly untouched by the fire which had centered mostly on the small cluster of workers’ desks in the corners and singeing a couple of the bookcases. He supposed the sprinkler system had really been effective in there … or the spider had directed the firestarter to _avoid_ the actual information.

Even now, Jon could see workers doing this and that, apparently blissfully unaware of hell broiling beneath them. They ignored him when he stumbled in this morning, but they had ignored him for a long while. Jon occasionally wondered what they thought of him. Probably that he had utterly lost it from too much time in the basement.

Thick blackout curtains were bunched up on either side of the window, clearly aggressively and angrily tied back with a clashing sash. Lukas had not been a fan of the view, it seemed, almost as much as Elias _was_ a fan of it.

“Well, if you know everything I’m going to say already, why not let me know before? Just tell me to stay home today if you haven’t got anything for me to do.” Jon remarked irritably. “The lift’s still out. Had to take the stairs.”

That made Elias look up at him, eyes half-lidded and clearly disinterested. His eyes flicked down to Jon’s cane and back up to Jon’s face. “Cardio.’

Dickhead.

“So you’re not concerned _at all_ that the Web is going to attack the Institute? Attack _me?”_

Elias sighed with annoyance, dipping his pen back into the well. Jon caught a sight of what he was writing. Employment contracts. Looked like HR department. _Putting up a new post already, are we? ‘Last occupant died tragically in a fire’._ “No. The Web wouldn’t be foolish enough to attack an institution that it sees as an informant.” His eyes went back down towards the contract. “And so long as they stay out of my business, I don’t _really_ care if it threatens you.”

“But they’re in our business, aren’t they.” That wasn’t Jon’s voice. It wasn’t the Archivist’s voice, either. It was distressingly high. _You’ve been through too much. You’re going hysterical. Jon, calm down, please. For me?_ That didn’t help. “They _killed_ Martin, and now they’re calling _me_ out, directly.”

Shrugging, Elias reached for his cuffs and started to adjust. “I see a simple solution to this problem, Jon. If they are threatening you to keep your nose out of this business – _then keep your nose out of this business.”_

Working the humanitarian angle clearly was not going to help. Jon sat down in the chair in front of Elias’ desk. To think, there had once been a time where he had considered Elias a good boss. Decent, at any rate. Left him alone to do his work and let him pretend to have power over his archival assistants. Jon had had more in common with him than the bumbling, somewhat inept blond man who brought him tea in the mornings and stuttered his greetings.

And now, Jon missed that inept blond man more than anything else in the world.

Elias did not _give a damn_ about anyone, and Jon couldn’t believe that he’d once seen that as a _good managerial strategy._ Had half-heartedly thought that he’d make a brilliant head of the Institute one day.

“It just doesn’t make sense. _Elias,_ if we’re meant to be stopping the Extinction, we’ve got to make this make sense.”

To that, he received no response, except Jon got the creeping feeling that Elias really didn’t like Jon sitting in his chairs.

“Why would the Web _want_ to kill Martin?”

Elias steepled his fingers together and inspected him with a piercing eye. Elias was taller than he was by a half-inch, though that wasn’t saying much. They were both the shortest people who worked in the Archives by a head. Yet, his presence towered over everyone else.

“I _presume_ that they thought killing Martin would keep the Extinction at bay,” he considered, and Jon shook his head crossly.

“That doesn’t make sense, either. Wasn’t that what Martin was doing with Elias? Preventing the Extinction from coming? If anything, killing him would ensure its arrival. Shouldn’t we be, er, a bit more panicked about all that?”

“Perhaps they thought Martin so fantastically inept that he’d bring it about accidentally.”

Jon’s fist clenched on the chair.

“God _damn_ it, Elias, he was my – “ Jon couldn’t keep his temper from flaring. Even if Elias could kill him with an odd look (or a metal pipe), Jon was impulsively taking that risk. He hated that he couldn’t grieve. He hated that he had to keep _going,_ and that Elias was going to mock him for it.

Elias interrupted. “Your what? Your _friend?_ Jon, you’re barely human, much less capable of friendship. Besides. You know my point.” Elias raised one eyebrow. “The Web have _always_ been keeping a pulse on the Institute. They knew what Martin was capable of, and incapable of.”

Although Jon’s nostrils flared, he clenched his jaw down and kept himself from breaking out into anger again. He couldn’t cause a fight with Elias. He just _couldn’t._ It would be his certain end – or Elias could wiggle his fingers and have him sprout a dozen more eyes. 

In that moment, Jon realized he couldn’t see any webs in Elias’ office. Perhaps a fantastic little agreement they’d worked out between them. He looked down at the desk. Had the Web _really_ killed Martin because they couldn’t trust him to stop the Extinction? That _no_ help would be better than _his_ help?

Jon’s head lowered until it was almost at his chest. Perhaps that was as simple as the explanation needed to be. What was he going to do? The Web would see him coming from a mile away, and never operated in broad daylight. _But Martin’s so useful,_ Jon thought to himself, _he could stop it. If he wanted. The Web had to see that. Maybe the Web didn’t want to stop the Extinction from coming, but …_

“If all the Entities are essentially different … shades of the same concept,” Jon asked hollowly, “Surely they wouldn’t care if another came into being. Just a new cousin, even if that new cousin wants to wipe out everything.”

“I thought you’d understand this better by now. The agents don’t reflect the whims of the Entities, if they have any at all.” Jon’s gaze was on his lap, shoulders slumped, as Elias reprimanded him. “There’s a reason why we don’t all live together in a big half-way house, inflicting fear on all the world. Perhaps we all do serve the same end purpose in different ways, but we are nevertheless driven by our natural impulses to squabble and bicker amongst each other.”

Jon didn’t respond.

“Not to mention, agents enjoy the _way_ they cause fear more than the fear itself. If the Extinction occurred, the Web would have to build her connections from the ground up. The Hunt would have to catch a scent again. The Corruption would have to make a new patient zero. Nobody wants that. Now, the Web thought it was for the _best_ that Martin Blackwood was removed. Maybe it was. I don’t know. Either way, rest assured that they are not intentionally trying to bring the Extinction into existence.”

He needed to get some air. This office was stifling him, and Elias even moreso. He couldn’t tell whether Elias was being incredibly pragmatic or simply monstrous. He wasn’t sure if he would be better at this Entity business if he was more human, or less so.

“Right,” Jon muttered, more as a segue to leave than anything. He stood and placed his hand on the back of the chair. “Right. Maybe. Maybe so.”

“Go back to your work, Jon.” The pen was plucked from the pot as Elias started to scribble on the paper again, writing in cursive so neat that nobody could possibly read it. “Don’t let this rob you of the bigger picture.”

 _Oh, fuck off,_ Jon thought intently. There’d been a period of a few months where he’d been certain that Elias could read his thoughts. If that there true, he didn’t care now. _Fuck off and sit on a railroad spike._

Turning around, Jon placed his hand on the doorway to leave. He knew that Elias wasn’t being totally honest with him. Elias had been annoyed when Martin had died, more than in passing, and that _meant_ something. But, as usual, Elias wasn’t going to breathe a word to him about it.

It didn’t matter. If Elias had been honest about anything, it was that the Institute was safe, so Jon’s mission was accomplished, and he was going to get lunch before he made another plan.

He threw on his coat and gloves. His gray woolen muffler was bound tightly around the bottom half of his face, capturing some of the dark black-and-gray hair falling loose around his shoulders. The black coat he wore clung tightly to his thin frame. Jon caught sight of himself in the mirror and winced. The marks on his russet skin were nearly matching the lines underneath his eyes. How fashionable.

Jon wasn’t self-conscious of the glaring, dark circular scars on his face _most_ days. Life outside of the Institute had seemed to matter less and less to him. The only time it had really been relevant is when a young toddler, no more than the age of five, had stopped him in the shops and inquired as to how long he had had the chicken pox for.

Completely inexperienced around children (and forgetting that they existed as a concept most days), Jon had hemmed and hawed uncertainly before the child’s mother had appeared and snatched her away from the frightening-looking man. _Clearly on drugs,_ she had obviously thought to herself, _the state of society these days._

He really didn’t want to deal with that today. Jon covered his face with the muffler as best as he could. Stepping outside of the Institute, Jon cursed behind his muffler as he saw the sky heavy with snow. Jon missed warmth. Dealing with fear seemed so much easier when it was achingly hot – and then Jon remembered the stench of warm flesh rotting in the sun, and decided he could be grateful for this, too.

Georgie’s car was parked outside the Institute.

Cocking his head in confusion, Jon approached the window. Georgie was inside, scrolling through her phone. He rapped his knuckles on the pane and she jumped, before the window rolled down. Jon halfway stuck his head in.

“Hi?” Jon asked. “What are you doing here?”

He saw his mobile sitting on the center console, and Georgie plucked it up. “Oh,” he remarked, “Thank you.” He hadn’t expected to see it again anytime soon, frankly. But as he leaned forward to pluck it from Georgie’s hand, he realized Georgie wasn’t letting go. His hand settled on hers uncertainly.

“I just wanted to say that I _am_ sorry for Martin. I know you two were close, and it’s absolutely horrific, what happened. You didn’t deserve that, he didn’t deserve that, and I hope you _do_ manage to find the time to grieve. I just needed to get that out.”

Sensing a ‘but’, Jon paused. Georgie’s hand was freezing.

“But I think it might be for the best that you don’t come ‘round to the flat anymore. Or check in. Until this is all over. If it’s _ever_ all over.” Georgie was speaking quickly. “I thought maybe we could make it do as friends. Melanie needs those, and there’s things she’s been through that I can’t – I just can’t _help_ with, but you’ve been through them, too.”

“Georgie – “ Jon tried to protest.

“But I don’t think you can just _have_ friends anymore, Jon.”

Oh. Jon took a step back as if he’d been shocked. That hurt. Behind his scarf, Jon frowned deeply, but he couldn’t find the words to argue. “Your mind is always on the next big danger. Maybe you don’t even _want_ it to be over.”

“Of course I do. Of course. I want everyone safe.”

“ _Safe._ See, you’re not even thinking about happy anymore. Melanie’s safe, and I can keep her that way, but I’m worried about her being happy if you’re --” Georgie sighed out slowly. “I’m sorry for doing this, right after Martin. But I _can’t_ have it happen again. If things change, then I’ll get back in touch. God knows. But … in the meantime …”

Jon understood. He didn’t like it, but he understood. This was necessary for Melanie’s recovery, and he had acted … he had acted hideously to the poor woman. “I understand. Give Melanie my love.” 

“Thanks. Good luck with everything.” The phone was finally released into his hand. Without speaking, Jon took it. The window was rolled up. Georgie started the car and drove off, and Jon waited there on the curb until it disappeared into the rest of London.

Well, that was the second time Georgie Barker had ever broken up with him, even if this was an ending of platonic things. This time had involved less shouting. It also hurt more.

He watched the road for some time, feeling alone. He checked his phone and found that Georgie’s and Melanie’s number were gone from it. Deleted utterly. Perhaps if Jon truly tried, he could Know them again, but his powers were rarely so specific and helpful. Besides. That would really defeat the purpose.

 _It’s not like you don’t deserve it,_ Jon told himself, _Perhaps Elias was right. Perhaps you shouldn’t have friends if you want to actually be useful to the greater society. Perhaps Georgie was right. Perhaps you can’t even have friends anymore._ He replaced the muffler over his face and turned down the street, hands deep in his pockets.

Filled with no small amount of self-hatred, Jon decided to punish himself for existing by having Pret for lunch.

A cold chill washed over him as soon as he walked in, and Jon rolled his eyes.

Christ, he wasn’t even sure why he was surprised anymore.

“Three days in a row is a bit much, don’t you think?” He asked to the middle-aged sea captain sitting in the corner. There was a limp sandwich in front of him, dry bread and wilted lettuce poking out from the wrapper. They both appeared moderately the same color.

Hopefully, Jon looked towards the counter. No attendant. No customers, either. He should have figured. “Someone’s in a mood today.” His stomach grumbled at Peter’s calm remark.

“Yes, well, I was planning on having lunch.”

“Grab something from the fridge, then. Not like they’ll come back to stop you.” Lukas took a bite of his sandwich before setting it to the side. Sighing in frustration, Jon looked at the sealed plastic containers sitting in the cold. Some of them were starting to freeze over. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

“I don’t think you’re particularly good for therapy,” Jon muttered.

He could have left. He had every right to. But, deep down, Jon couldn’t help but think he deserved this. Perhaps spending time with an avatar of the Lonely meant that he wouldn’t hurt anyone else for the time being. Perhaps this was the best way. Lukas always just wanted to talk to him, and Jon felt like he was physically incapable of hurting him.

Most of the thick plastic packaging had gone cloudy from the freezing, rendering the insides uniformly beige and sandwich-shaped. He ended up picking one at random. “No offense.”

“Nonsense.”

Jon took a seat across from him and started to pry apart the packaging. The edge cut his finger and he cursed, pressing his bleeding digit into his muffler. “Trying to recruit me again? Or whatever it is you want to do with me, whatever your goal is.” He’d brought the plastic package up to his teeth to rip it open. Jon was successful, but it caused the slightly soggy sandwich to fall onto the table with a sad _flop._ When he picked it up, a portion of it stuck to the table. “Least you could do is find somewhere nicer.”

“Would you _believe_ we just keep running into one another?”

“No.” Jon answered grimly.

“I guess you wouldn’t, Archivist. Or – Jon. You let me call you Jon, don’t you?” Lukas asked. “What can I say? I like your company.”

Jon let out a laugh, dark and humorless. He took one half of the soggy sandwich – egg salad, whatever – and took a bite. It sank like cement in his mouth. Lukas passed a paper coffee cup over and Jon took a sip of something the approximate temperature and flavor of saliva.

 _You could just run off,_ Jon reminded himself, but he remained in his seat. _But you won’t, will you? Useless. Can’t even do what’s best for yourself. Why even try?_

“And you like mine, too.” The glare Jon sent him made Lukas chuckle. “You have to admit it. I’m the only person who’s talked to you in ages that’s just wanted to talk to you, haven’t I?” He paused, lip curling to the side as he took another bite of his sandwich. “No yelling. No telling you that you’re wrong. No pushing you. Just nice, simple, _conversation.”_

“To get me to join your – your – “ Jon sighed, pulling his muffler away from his face entirely. His breath puffed out in the cold. “Your little solitude brigade.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth, Jon!” He looked offended as he slid his hand just on the inside of his coat pocket. “I swear on my lovely lady’s life.” Jon raised an eyebrow. Lukas didn’t seem the marriage type. “My boat.” Ah. “I’m only trying to help you. When’s the last time someone just wanted to help you?”

 _Never._ Everything always had to be a fight. Jon took another bite of his egg salad sandwich as it stuck to the roof his mouth. _They’re not wrong. You’re not exactly easy to agree with. Who would want to help you? You just muck things up and get weepy about it._

“I can see why Martin liked you. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Just a little hot, every now and then.”

The mention of Martin settled something dark and heavy in Jon’s gut. As if he had been physically struck, Jon leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. He was in physical pain. _Martin._ Martin, yes, Martin had liked him, seen his worth, even if it wasn’t in his best interest. Martin had thought him remarkable.

And now, Martin was gone. Melanie and Georgie despised him. Basira and Daisy were constantly weighed down by him. And Elias saw Jon nothing more than a simple asset.

“Yes,” he agreed, voice wavering. “I’ve … I ruin things.”

“Gets you into all _sorts_ of trouble.” Peter raised his hands in surrender. “Not your fault, of course! I mean, what a mess of a situation, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Jon’s stomach was flopping. He pushed the demolished plastic packaging away from him and wrapped his arms around his middle. Jon took a deep swallow, and Christ, his eyes felt like they were covered by a thin film of water. He didn’t reach up to wipe off his glasses. “It is. I caused it. Me.”

“All I’m offering is to help take that away from you, Jon. All that pain.”

Jon gritted his teeth. “And the joy. And the warmth.” It was nothing more than a grumble, partially obscured from the stiff way he was holding his jaw. He felt as if he moved at all, the cold would infect him further. Find any open pore and just blow right into his body, into his veins, into his _bones._

“Oh, poor lad,” Lukas crooned, “Do you really think you’ll ever feel happy again anyway?”

The prospect was poor and the end of the world was nigh. Jon was almost positive that he’d end up dying soon, whether to whatever creature that was both in him and simply him, or to something else that wanted him dead just as much. Melanie and Georgie had distanced themselves from him. Elias was a brick wall. Basira could not see beyond the work, and Daisy had been hurt and would only be hurt because of _him._

There was never going to be a happily ever after for him. Perhaps for the others, only in the sense that he would no longer be in their lives.

“No.” His voice wavered. Jon sounded like he was near tears. Arms wrapped around his stomach, Jon was leaning so far forward that he could see his face reflected in the dirty linoleum of the table. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Then what’s the harm of joining up with me? Staying in the Lonely. It’s really not as scary as some people make it. I think it’s comforting. A heavy blanket, you’d think.”

Silence hung. Jon couldn’t even hear the sound of London outside the glass doors, anymore. He didn’t turn his head to see if anyone was even outside, or if it were just he and Lukas in all the world.

Maybe Lukas was right. Jon was so tired of making things worse.

“Fine,” Jon muttered lowly. Lukas shot him a friendly smile, and the old sea Captain reached forward to put a hand on his shoulder. He expected it to be warm, but it was not.

But he couldn’t just pop off and leave with him. Jon knew that his joining the Lonely would have _value,_ and Jon knew how to extort value.

“On one condition.” The friendly smile disappeared from his face just as quickly. “I’ll join you. Go with you. Stay in the Lonely forever until I die from starvation, but I need to know what happened with Martin. I need to know who. I need to _talk_ to them.”

Leaning back in his chair, Lukas rubbed at his beard. There were errant flecks of soggy bread in it. Jon shivered from disgust. He had a contemplative expression on his face, and Jon felt like Lukas definitely had some information to trade.

“Do you know?”

“Know? Archivist, I was there.”

_What?_

Usually, that would ignite Jon’s temper. Now, with a pain in his stomach so bad that Jon couldn’t foresee himself getting up again, he only looked up to stare at Peter with wide questioning, eyes.

“I’d just gone in to discuss managerial reviews when the fire started. Saw the entire thing, as it happened. ‘Course, made myself scarce pretty quickly after the room started getting stuffy. Now, tell me, Jon, have you ever heard of the phrase ‘two’s company, but three’s a crowd’?”

“Someone came in to kill Martin,” Jon asked, words sharp as daggers, “And you _left?”_

“Oh, you don’t fight with that one, lad. When they come, you just let them take what they want.” Lukas considered himself, tapping his fingers. It was a sea shanty. Jon didn’t recognize it as first, because weren’t those meant to be sung as a group. He took a deep breath. “Tell you what. You agree to join my Entity, stay in the Lonely forever, and I’ll give you my statement. I’ll even agree to wait to take you _after_ you talk with whoever’s done it. How’s that sound?”

What other opportunity did he have? What other horizon was in front of him? Jon looked at the cloudy gray water in the cup. Even if the decision was so easy, saying the words was so hard. He picked his arms up from around his stomach and covered his face with them. Tears. When had he started to cry?

They needed a lead. Jon _needed to know._ Wasn’t that worth his life? Hadn’t he run into a burning building with the clear expectation that he might die regardless? How different was this?

“Yes,” Jon agreed to the Lonely. “Yes. Let me see this through, and I will do whatever you want me to do.”

He didn’t have to look up to know that Lukas was smiling. “You’ll see that this is really the best for you, soon enough. All right,’ he considered, leaning back in his chair, “Let’s see. What’s that thing you say? Statement begins?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update, this time with Jon partially selling his soul to dear, dear Peter Lukas, a name in a cobweb, and Georgie breaking up with Jon for the 2nd time. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read/kudos'ed/left comments! I absolutely love to bits seeing how people react to the story, and I appreciate/read all of them. See you next Sunday!


	7. The Boat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of death

_Let’s see, the obvious: the fire started somewhere in the Archives. Not sure where specifically, myself, though it was definitely down near Martin’s office. We couldn’t see anything yet, but I could hear the, ah, the crackling coming down the corridor. Martin’s door was cracked a bit. I’d been in Martin’s office when it happened, you see, but he was_ long _dead before the fire ever touched him._

_I’ve always liked Martin’s office. No windows. Corners are all visible. When you sit at your desk, you can’t even see the door. It’s a pleasant place to get some work done. I think Martin thought so, too, that’s why he was there so often. He kept the place an awful mess, though. And that jacket of his. Eurgh. Bright colors! Now, if he were a fish, he’d have a hook put through his cheek right quick._

_Still, we heard the emergency sirens start going off and I could see smoke start to curl around the far corner of the hallway. Not sure what could’ve started a fire down that way. It was near Artifact Storage, so I think there’s enough cursed items in there to make the entire place go up like a firecracker. Some of ‘em are from my lot._

_We waited a beat or two and then the sprinklers went off in his office. I don’t mind getting wet, myself, but I know Martin’s fussy about the stuff. I like the water. You ever been out on the water much, Jon? No, I guess you haven’t. You ought to, sometime. I could arrange it. You don’t know how big the ocean is – how the world’s just composed of people huddled on land and then there’s nobody on gigantic swaths of water – until you’re on it. I took Martin out on my boat once. He didn’t like it very much at all. Don’t think the boy likes water at all._

_Which was strange! Because there he was, getting soaked through and not getting up at all. He didn’t even reach for that awful windbreaker hanging on the back of his chair. He was just sat at his desk. Not typing, not writing anything. Just sort of staring. Like that. Like you are now. Just straight forward. I asked him what he was waiting for, that it was about to get real smoky here in a second and we ought to get out of the Archives unless we wanted to turn into jerky for the avatar of the Hunt working here – Petunia, whatever her name is._

_I don’t think I thought it was the Desolation, at the time. Seems outside their wheelhouse doesn’t it? Burning down a place of work. Besides, you’ve got completely normal arsonists that aren’t part of any bigger power. Fool me once, shame on you, I suppose. If anything, I thought it might’ve been karma. Magnus was not a very nice man._

_Martin didn’t respond to me, and I went over to him to put a hand on his shoulder to shake him out of it. He gets these ways in hm, where he won’t answer anyone and he‘ll just look straight ahead like there’s something there. Makes me proud of him when I see it. Sometimes he’ll do that for hours. But it’s really getting a little urgent, so I ask him again if he wants to get out of here._

_He doesn’t look up. There’s something in his eyes that I don’t think I’ve seen before. I wasn’t much a fan of it._

_You think, when a mouse gets caught in a trap, and it doesn’t die right away, but it knows that it’s going to? That there’s no way it can get out? There’s panic, of course, and then there’s acceptance about it, I think. Where you would do anything at all in the world to change it … but you know there’s not anything you can do._

_That was Martin._

_He said, “Lukas, I am going to die.”_

_And I told him, no, lad, not quite yet you’re not. He shook his head. He’s a stubborn thing, isn’t he? And he repeats it. Lukas, I am going to die. Like he was discussing Sunday brunch. At this point, I’m getting a bit frustrated with him. I don’t fancy much being burned to a crisp, either, but I don’t think I can lift him. I’m strong, but Martin is rather a big man, isn’t he?_

_Either way, I start deciding whether I ought to drag him by his hair or just heft him over my shoulder and try my best when I hear a knock on the door. I figured it was you. I know you’ve got a soft spot for him. Don’t know why, not like he’s done anything for you in a fair bit. Then, I thought, no, you’d be breaking the bloody door down. This was just a soft knock. Insistent. Didn’t let up, but it was soft._

_I went over to the door and open it. And, would you believe, there’s someone there. Not an Institute worker. Not the one that I recognized. She was short, pretty stout, had the loveliest brown curls that you ever saw, and bright hazel eyes. Never much a fan of red lipstick on women, reminds me of a red-lipped batfish, ever caught one of those, lad, no, I guess you wouldn’t have._

_Anyway. She said she was here to collect him. I stood to the side. I … to be honest, I’m not sure I know why. I think I knew that I would move, either way, and best to do it quick than drag it out._

_She goes over to Martin, and for the first time, Martin looks up at her. He’s scared. I can see it in the way his chin trembles, like he’s trying not to start yelping in fear. As soon as the woman walks by, I see Martin’s little office plant, the one he keeps on the desk, you know the one, it starts to shrivel up. Poor thing._

_“Are you Martin Blackwood?” She asks him primly, and I see her reach forward for his face. Every movement of hers is slow, like she’s pushing it through water. She takes his cheek, and I see she’s got red nail polish, the same shade as her lips. I guess that’s the trend these days? Boy’s always had his painted black. Think I might do mine in grey. Anyway. Don’t give me that look, I’m getting to the next part._

_He doesn’t say anything, at first. When he opens his mouth, again, I see a couple of tears roll down his face. His face is all red. He says, “Please.”_

_“We were just leaving,” I said, stepping in to put a hand on her shoulder. “He won’t be any bother.”_

_When she speaks to me again, it’s not in a young woman’s voice. It’s the voice of a craggy hag, you know, like that old Archivist of yours, what was her name, ah, it doesn’t matter. She says, “Leave me alone, Lonely. You lack conviction.”_

_Now, I know they say chivalry’s dead, and you know, they might be right. I tried to pull her away and my hand passed right through her, like she was some ghost. Meanwhile, Martin’s shaking in his chair, and I saw that her hand had left a cherry-pink palmprint there. Like she slapped him. Don’t know if hurt._

_“Please don’t,” Martin repeated. “I don’t want to die.”_

_She turned back towards him. “No, I suppose you don’t,” she remarked, and her hands went for his hair. They carded through it gently. “They rarely do.”_

_“Is – “ Poor boy sounded like he was going to be sick. “Is it going to hurt?”_

_I saw her smile. It seemed too angular, somehow, too sharp. All of her teeth were canines, and I saw that, beyond the lipstick, there were little pinprick cuts all over her lips._

_“Yes,” she said, and that was when Martin fell out of his chair._

_He curled up on his side, and he didn’t say anything. His hands went up to his head, cupping it by his temples. She moved down as if she were going to help him back up into the chair. She touched his shoulders and he flinched as if she’d shocked him, somehow, but she said, “Get up, now, there’s a good one, no need to make a fuss.”_

_It was all getting a bit much for me, you know? So I decided it would be best that I took my leave. And so, I did. I’ve got this lovely little boat that I like to go to sometimes, in the middle of nowhere. Ought to take you, Archivist. Nobody’s ever there – well, obviously, since I can go there wherever I like. When I was on her, she was a couple hundred miles out from Denmark. Beautifully calm waters. I sat out there for a bit, ate some fish, it was quite lovely. And then I came back to hear that the Archives had been burnt down and Elias came to see me, and – well, I guess you know the rest, don’t you?_

_I think this is the part where you say statement ends?_

“What?” Jon pulled his head out of his hands. There were tear tracks down his face, still, but now shock and anger kept his voice steady. He jabbed his finger down on the table. “You just _left?”_

“I’m not one for conflict, much.”

“Martin was getting – _“_ Jon let out a noise of disgust at the man in front of him, crossing his arms. A bit of feeling returned to them, then. The pit of _emptiness_ in his abdomen seemed to fill from his fueling anger. “And you just _left.”_

“Not much for me to do there. When the End decides they want you, they’ve got you. Besides, there was a fire going on, you were there.”

“Martin was being _killed,_ and you just left,” Jon repeated as emphatically as possible, as if he were explaining _yes, staring at the sun will blind you, what an excellent observation._ “And he was being _killed.”_

“Really. Not sure what you expected me to do otherwise. I think I’ve been very forthcoming with you. Besides, not like you were exactly all that eager to help him. You ran off with Petunia. Rose? Lily.” Lukas finished the last of his sandwich and settled his hands on his belly. “You want my theory on what happened? I thought about it, when I was out on the boat.”

“Not particularly.” Jon expected Peter to go on anyway, and he didn’t. Eventually, he let out a sigh and gave a wave of his hand. “Go on, then.”

“Classic case of the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker.”

He wished that there was one Entity, or one agent, or one person on Earth who would _ever_ give him a straight answer. Jon blinked at Lukas in weary exhaustion. Lukas peered back like he was being completely clear. Not being purposefully obtuse, Jon considered, but had the thought process of a man who had been alone for so long and had forgotten how words were perceived by others. _How could Martin stand you being so cryptic?_

“You know. Rub-a-dub-dub. Three men in a tub. And who do you think they be? The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, and all of them out to sea.” Lukas pressed one finger to his bearded chin in sincere thought. “Course, and I’m not too sure about the Desolation, I think they might’ve all been young ladies, actually.”

Jon wondered if the lack of conversational skills had come _after_ Lukas’ association with the Lonely, or before. Then again, if the entire Lukas family worshipped it, he supposed the difference was piddling. _There, now, time to learn your maths, I’ll shut you in a room with this workbook and I’ll see you in about two weeks._

“Anyway. You’ve got your butcher, the one that did the killing – that’ll be your End. You’ve got your baker, the one who kept things hot – that’ll be your Desolation. And then you’ve got your one lighting your darkness, organizing it all – that’ll be your Web. Someone had to pull this whole plan together, didn’t they? Screams the Mother of Puppets, to me.”

“You think they were all working together,” Jon said wearily, “That’s what you mean. In a roundabout way.” A beat. “Wouldn’t the Desolation be the candlestick maker? Fire, and everything?”

“Nah. They can’t be fussed with the light, really, if they can help it. They prefer the destruction. And that Archive certainly _felt_ like an oven.” The smile, almost insidiously welcoming, was there again. “Hope I was able to help you out a little bit.’

“What makes you believe the Web’s involved at all?”

“The End’s a bit of a tricky one, it is. Doesn’t really like working with the others if they can help it – kind of creeps the rest of us out, honestly.”

“The _End_ creeps _you_ out.”

“Sure. Rest of us like what we do well enough. End, well,” Lukas shuddered, “They’ve got no artistry about it. No … _theme,_ I suppose? Won’t burn you or bury you or eat you. Just. Dead. Rather crass, honestly.”

Jon supposed it was a fair point. And it _was_ an explanation, anyway. Not one worth selling his allegiance for, perhaps, but when Lukas had made the offer … well, he could’ve offered Jon the crumbs in his beard and Jon probably would have agreed. His standards hadn’t exactly been high. The pain in his stomach had started to lessen, a bit, and Jon wondered if he regretted the decision. If he would ever regret it.

Possibly.

The silence of the Pret had started to shift, gradually. Jon heard a seabird call off in a distance. A clanging of a bell against a metal rod. The smell of rotting fish. _Cold._ Cold sea air, most of all. A gust of it hit his face. Jon’s tongue poked out to wet his lips, and he could’ve sworn he tasted salt. “Ready to go?”

Right. Well, he knew who had killed Martin, and how Martin had died, and he supposed that was Lukas’ end of the offer … “But _why?”_ Jon asked. “ _Why_ would the Web go to _all_ that effort to kill Martin? Recruiting the Desolation, the End – it must’ve taken ages, even if she was just puppeteering them.”

“Tsk. You’ve got me there. Haven’t got the faintest idea, and I don’t see how you’d find out. Now, unless you’re a man who doesn’t keep his word, I really think we ought to be going.” Jon looked into Lukas’ eyes, and didn’t find the familiar grey. Instead, he only saw an ocean horizon, stretching out into all directions, showing no sign of life or land. It was hard to tell about the clouds of the sky from the rough grey waters below.

“I can ask her. The Web. She – “ Jon swallowed, breaking eye contact. “I have to know why before I go with you. But I _will_ go with you after I speak with her, Peter, I promise. _”_

The sigh Lukas gave was tinged with sadness. “I’ll give you a bit more time, then. I won’t stop you from messing with the Web too much, lad, but I’d advise not going to the End especially. They’re not a friendly sort.”

“I figure.” Jon’s voice was dry.

“See, the rest of us – right, we might use the dead bodies a bit when they’re done for this and that – not _me,_ obviously – but regardless, we usually let the dead stay well enough dead. Not the End, ironically enough. If you want my opinion, I don’t think they’re _really_ alive. Think they’re faking it.”

The implication sat in the air like a weight. Jon hadn’t considered that for a moment. “Do you think … that they might not, for Martin, that – but he’s to be buried. If he isn’t already, I – I – I think Elias already made the arrangements.”

“The _End_ isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty!” Lukas barked out a little laugh. “I would hope you’d know that by now. ‘Course, I don’t see why they’d go to the trouble of bringing him back to life if they went and killed him.”

A fair point, but nevertheless incredibly troubling. Jon stared at the linoleum of the table, tracing patterns with his eyes. Incredibly troubling, indeed. But if this was going to be his last hurrah, as a turn of phrase, he wanted to be thorough. He needed to know why. And he needed to know how to keep the others safe when he was gone.

“Thank you.” Jon’s voice was empty and monotone, nothing more than a social nicety meant to end the conversation. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Lukas, for what it was worth, took the hint. He stood up. His anchor pin glinted against the light in the shop, but Jon’s gaze was well enough fixed to the table. “Hope you’re able to get some answers, Archivist,” he remarked, but there was an underlying warning to his words. As he walked past Jon, he patted his shoulder. “Sooner, rather than later.” Peter’s last words were uttered low, and the bell on the door made Jon jump.

The door to the Pret opened and slammed shut as Lukas walked out. Jon swallowed deeply. More answers and significantly more questions, as well as the slightly alarming feature of being bound to the Lonely indefinitely.

 _Maybe,_ Jon thought to himself wearily as he stood, _it would be nice to get some rest._

He stood and turned towards the door. Before he could step back out onto the London street, Jon almost bumped into a group of businesspeople trying to walk inside. They stared past him at the frost-covered tables as the light in the refrigeration unit suddenly went out. “Shop’s closed,” he announced in a low, grave voice, before turning back towards the Institute.

The walk was uneventfully dismal and grey. Jon walked back inside the main doors of the Institute and saw that they had mostly cleaned the scorchmarks from every location. Had even gotten everybody back to work. _Industrious as ever,_ Jon thought to himself in disgust, before he caught sight of a large cork board in the center of the room.

 _In Memoriam,_ it read.

Four Institute employees were featured on it. Their staff photo, of course, as well as others – photos of them playing with dogs, pushing a child on a swingset, on a large mountain, in the middle of the ocean, at a party, graduating from University. Jon didn’t recognize any of them. One of them _may_ have worked in the Library, he supposed? No, he did recognize that one, he worked in Human Resources, Jon had had to attend a mandatory harassment seminar hosted by him once. _Telling people to go away because their ineptitude makes you sick to your stomach does technically count as harassment, Mr. Sims._

Martin wasn’t anywhere on the board.

Jon found himself searching for him there, examining each photo to see if Martin made an appearance somewhere. There was no sign of the larger blond man, no sign of his frizzy, curly hair or his somewhat dopey smile, no awkward way he held his hands when a camera was pointed at him, no memory that he had ever worked in the Institute at all – much less died in it. Jon remembered what the mortician said, about not being able to find Martin’s employment records.

Oh.

He stuck his hands into his pockets. His fingers brushed a corner of paper, and when he withdrew it, he found the photo that had been stuck on Martin’s fridge, the one of him and his mother. It had been in his pocket for days, and was understandably much more wrinkled than it had been when he’d found it.

He reached for a thumb tack.

In a free corner, Jon took the photo in his hand and put it up there. It was in startling opposition to the rest of the photos there: Martin, looking tense and awkward next to his grim mother, as compared to the rest of the photos showing happy, fulfilling lives. But, it was a sign that he had been there.

Peter Lukas might have tried, as best as he could, to erase Martin from existence. To show somehow that he hadn’t ever existed. Jon wouldn’t let anybody forget if he could help it. He stared at the photo board, the old wrinkled polaroid against the more modern photographs, before turning towards the stairs to the basement.

Jon returned to his office. Templeton squeaked at him in greeting, and before he could help himself, he gave a little smile. _I do like having you around, Templeton, perhaps I’ll make you the Archive pet after I’m down in the Lonely,_ he thought to himself warmly. He sat at his desk and opened Templeton’s cage. Templeton immediately wormed his way onto Jon’s hands.

“You don’t care what I do, do you, Templeton?” Jon cooed at the rat. He ran his thumb along his back. “Don’t give one toss about the kind of person I am. So long as you’re fed and taken care of, you’re pleased to see me.” Templeton warmly gnawed at the end of Jon’s fingertip, not hard enough to break skin. “I need a friendly face, after today.” The rat’s ears twitched. “And I think you’re the only one I’ve got.”

Templeton started to wriggle in his hands, and Jon placed him down on the desk. He watched him scamper over to his notepad, and as he did, Jon noticed something was out of place among the mess. Jon always took care to carefully file tapes (even if everything else went a bit by the wayside, but …)

A tape, labeled in Martin’s messy scrawls. It made it impossible to tell what date it was. Years ago, Jon would’ve given Martin a sound lecture over such a mess (a _label-maker,_ for Christ’s sake, _Martin),_ but now, he simply quirked an eyebrow at it. There was a note attached to the bottom of it. Allowing Templeton to happily gnaw away at his red notepad, Jon reached for the paper.

_Listen to this. Then meet me in the tunnels. We have to talk. -Basira_


	8. Touched by the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of death, murder, resurrection

_Statement of Delilah Lopez, regarding her experience with the apparent death of her fiancé. Original statement given January 16 th, 2012. Audio recording by Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant. _

_Statement begins._

_Let me just say, I don’t know where my brother is. I’ve answered a thousand questions about where I think he might be, but if you want the truth, I do think he’s dead or nearly there. I’ve made my peace with it, I think, mostly because – if he did do what I think he did – let’s just say it’s for the best._

_My brother’s younger by six years. He’s always been, you know, my baby brother._

_He was always brash. Never afraid to talk about the heavy things, the elephant in the room. He wasn’t mean about it or anything. He just didn’t see the point in pretending things didn’t exist. When our mum and dad announced they were getting a divorce, Noah asked if Dad was going to be living with the person he’d been sleeping with for six months. Mum hadn’t known._

_It bit him in the arse a lot. Around a few years ago, I had a bit of a health … thing. I’m in remission now. But Noah used to come around asking how I felt about dying, I lost my shit at him for it on more than one occasion, because who the hell asks something like that? Noah, apparently. I never told him, but every once in a while I was grateful for it. Everyone else avoided the d-word like the plague. Not Noah._

_For the most part, though, it just really pissed me off. But, you know, older siblings – they put up with a lot._

_He was very comfortable with death. I think it was because he always knew when he was going to die._

_He dreamed it when I was eighteen, had just gone off to Uni. Called me, as calm as you please, and announced that he was going to die on January 23 rd, 2012. I asked him how he knew. He said he saw it in a dream._

_It was earlier than I would’ve liked. He would be 25 when he died. At the time, it became sort of an … in-joke between us? That he wouldn’t have to worry about such-and-such, climate change or whatever, because he’d be long gone. 25 feels like ages away when you’re fifteen, eighteen, nineteen. Less so when you’re twenty. Twenty-two._

_As he got a little older, I think he actually began to believe it. He was always … I don’t know if ‘impulsive’ is the right word. He was a danger seeker, that was for sure. Got into fights a lot, though that might’ve been because of his mouth. Sky-diving, deep-sea cave diving, everything that he had the money for. He never had much money, never seemed interested in a long-term job._

_So. I let him stay with me. I know I probably should’ve staged an intervention, maybe forced himself to consider long-term career plans, but he_ had _always been there when I’d been in hospital. I felt like I owed him. Besides, he was my little brother._

_He got along great with my boyfriend – then, after a lovely trip to Ireland, he got along great with my fiancé. Frankly, I was thrilled with that, especially after Daniel moved in with me and Noah. Noah got Daniel out of my hair when I wanted some time to myself, and Daniel was a good influence on him. Like the big brother he never had._

_I’d never had much patience for Noah’s little impulsive whims. No, Noah, I don’t want to go urban exploring. No, Noah, I have work, I can’t just go off to the Louvre with you. Daniel had a little more patience for that._

_I swear, sometimes it was like Noah was our child. We talked about him a lot. Daniel did think Noah’s fixation on his deathdate was strange, particularly when Noah hit 24. Noah seemed to be getting more bothered about it. He’d gotten quieter. Said he’d been having nightmares, I presumed concerning the date, and then, one night, he asked me if I’d name my first-born after him. If it were a boy._

_Daniel and I had been planning on having children, yes, but – and I do love my brother, but naming any hypothetical children after him hadn’t really crossed my mind. I laughed it off and said that he was still going to be around if I had a baby, and two Noahs would get terribly confusing._

_I thought he dropped it. Then, one evening, I was having dinner with Daniel. Noah was off … oh, who knows. He was off somewhere. He’d gotten really into that podcast, What the Ghost? And I think he was in some haunted house._

_As we were washing up, Daniel said that Noah had asked him sort of a weird question about the future. Said that Noah wanted Daniel to name his first-born son after him. I’ll be honest, I lost my temper a bit at that. I’d already done so much for Noah, changed so much of my life around for him, and he was being so pushy on something silly._

_I wanted to do a full-scale intervention. Enroll Noah in some Uni courses. Get him an apprenticeship. A job. Something. Daniel calmed me down, said that he already thought things were looking up, because Noah had a girlfriend._

_A girlfriend? Noah had had a lot of one-night-stands, sure, sometimes he wouldn’t be around for days. But he had an almost phobic fear of commitment, and I couldn’t imagine who he’d actually want to be with long-term. Frankly, Noah put a lot of people off. And when the deathdate came up, people rightfully went running in the other direction._

_No, Daniel said, he did! He’d been going to have lunch with him at the café and saw Noah talking to a woman. She had reached over to hold his hand, and Noah had blushed cherry-pink red. Looked like he was holding his breath. They, Daniel insisted, were on a date._

_Well, naturally I wanted to know all about this woman. I felt a little like an overprotective mother. Who was she, I asked. What was her name, how long had they been together, what did she do? Did she get to the bit where he firmly believed that he was going to die in a year? Did she think he had money? Did she think he had gone mad?_

_While Daniel didn’t know much, he could answer my question about what she looked like. She was short, Daniel had considered, with beautiful brown ringlets. A little stout. He’d only seen her from behind, though, so as to her face … Daniel couldn’t say._

_I wasn’t sure if Noah would tell me about her on his own, but I desperately wanted to know. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t taking advantage of a man who thought he was going to die in a year._

_Daniel promised he’d find out on my behalf. He’d have a just-guys talk with him about relationships. They were meant to be going out that night, anyway, to visit a graveyard that Noah had thought was haunted._

_Daniel never believed in the occult, at all. Suffice to say that he thought Noah’s belief in his own death was bullshit, just like I did. He wasn’t the sort of skeptic that secretly wondered ‘what if?’ though. Like … right. Has anyone ever refused to come in here, because they absolutely, categorically, without a doubt did not believe in the supernatural? And you start to wonder … if they’re protesting a bit too much._

_No, Daniel didn’t believe at all, in a way that he would happily wander a graveyard at night and only be concerned about a passing mugger or stray dog. I think he went mostly because Noah would absolutely go on his own otherwise, and Noah had been mugged more than once._

_I was thrilled, personally, because I thought Daniel could get some information out of him. I gave him a kiss for luck and sent him on his way, and … frankly, I’m sort of wondering if that’s the last time I saw Daniel. My Daniel._

_I don’t know what graveyard they went to. I didn’t even think to ask. One bullshit haunted graveyard was another bullshit haunted graveyard, in my opinion, and it wasn’t like I tracked Daniel’s, or Noah’s, every move. So I prepared for a nice night in on my own. I teach secondary school, you see, and I had a few papers to grade. I was happy to do so. Over a glass of wine._

_It struck about eleven where I started getting … not worried, not at first, but mostly annoyed. If you want the truth, I thought Noah had managed to convince him to wait until midnight because it was spooky._

_Then midnight passed. Then one AM, then two, and then I called the police. Not like there was much they could do, as I didn’t know the graveyard they’d went to, but they promised me they would keep an ear out. Like that meant anything._

_Noah came home at dawn. I heard the knock on the door and got up, and there was Noah. My baby brother._

_I hate to say it. I got angry, first. I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing, letting me worry about him all night, that he had a phone for a reason, that he should’ve called me as soon as he realized he’d be out late, and where the hell was Daniel, anyway?_

_That was about when I noticed there was dried dirt on his clothes, some blood on his face. He was cut up. Not that he looked mugged, at all, but just like he had been stranded in the woods all night._

_Noah started to cry._

_Noah wasn’t a crier, not really. But now, he just started to bawl, and I was absolutely certain that my fiancé was dead. There wasn’t any other reason Daniel wouldn’t have come home._

_I guided Noah to the couch and asked him what had happened, and he seemed so upset that he couldn’t get any words out. I just put my hand on his back and tried to calm him down. Eventually, he did, and I asked him again what had happened._

_The only thing he said was, “She was with him.” I kept trying to press him. Who was with Daniel? Did she hurt him? Kill him? I have to admit that the thought of an affair crossed my mind, but that certainly wouldn’t cause Noah to break down the way that he had. Noah wasn’t precisely tough, but he didn’t let things bother him like that._

_I couldn’t get anything else out of him. Soon, the police showed up. And … took Noah away._

_They didn’t keep him long. I finally got one of the officers to speak with me about what Noah had told them. Once he calmed down, he was apparently a bit more forthcoming. They had gotten to the cemetery and was there for a few hours before Daniel started to get nervous, of all things. Said he felt like he could feel the dead underground, whatever that meant. Daniel didn’t say things like that. He wasn’t … like that._

_Eventually, Noah caught sight of someone watching them from around a crypt. She wasn’t hiding at all, just leaning against it smoking a cigarette. When Daniel looked at her, she stood up and walked over._

_She said, “You’re Daniel, aren’t you?” And Daniel didn’t say a word, but looked over at Noah and told him to run. And Noah did. He ran through the darkened graveyard at night until he tripped over a cracked headstone and into an open grave._

_Noah said that he heard a laugh, as soon as he did. The laugh didn’t come from above ground._

_He hid in that open grave until he saw the sun start to come up. He was cowering, hiding. It didn’t feel as quiet as it should have. Six feet below the top of the earth, it should have been dead-silent. Instead, Noah heard … rustling. Tapping. Creaking. Once, he swore he heard a cough. None came from above the open grave, but rather like they were coming from the earth itself. Dawn came after hours._

_Then he reached out, stuck his hands in the soft earth, and pulled himself up. He went to go search for Daniel. He returned to the crypt where he’d last seen him, but there was nothing there but an ashy-gray end of a cigarette. The earth had been soft around there, and Noah could still his footprints. He could see his own, suddenly stopping away and sprinting at a quick pace. There were no footprints where the woman stood._

_And no footprints indicating where Daniel might have gone._

_He hadn’t known what to do. His phone had died hours ago, in the grave. So he had ran home, and that was all he knew._

_The officers asked him what the woman looked like. Noah had waited incredibly long on that point, before answering that she was short, a bit stout, and had long curly brown ringlets. She was wearing bright red lipstick with matching nailpolish. When she talked, she had very pointy teeth and holes in her lips._

_I didn’t put much stock in the last point, but the first was enough to convince me that Noah knew far more than what he was letting on._

_I pleaded. I yelled. I’m not proud, I got on my knees to beg him what he knew of that woman. I was convinced it was the same woman Daniel had seen him with. Did he owe debts? He had gambled in the past, done drugs, drank. Had someone tracked him down? Had someone killed Daniel to get to him? Was Daniel even, if I was lucky, still alive?_

_I got answered on that last point a few weeks later. Daniel had been found in the very same cemetery he had died in. When a mourning family had come to bury their beloved, deceased loved one, they had found the grave already occupied. With a coffin … and Daniel._

_The funeral was the last straw. As far as family went, it was Noah and I, but Daniel had had a fantastically massive family that were all devastated by his loss. I was every bit the grieving fiance, myself, because I think that was where it really hit me. Daniel was dead. And I missed him so badly._

_I turned on Noah at the funeral. As soon as Daniel was buried for the second time, I wheeled on him. How the hell was it fair, I argued, that Noah went on and on about his own death when Daniel’s the one who ended up dying? That Noah had prepared for his death his entire life and Daniel’s just ended? That it couldn’t have been Noah instead?_

_He seemed genuinely stunned by my anger, and was at a loss of what to say. But, he eventually stumbled, it wasn’t his deathdate._

_I kicked him out._

_I don’t know where he went. I thought about it all the time. I felt guilty, hated myself, drank, all that mess, because suddenly I’d gone from an overcrowded two-bedroom flat to living on my own. I took off work for the rest of the year. Just kept to myself, mostly. Occasionally met with Daniel’s family when they reached out to me, but I became more reclusive. Some days, I wouldn’t even leave the sofa. Just watch telly or go on my laptop from morning until night. I didn’t want to do anything else._

_Maybe two weeks after, I saw on the news about a homeless man getting attacked. It wasn’t Noah, but I couldn’t help but think that it could have been him. Noah didn’t have any savings, any friends, and there was every possibility that I had kicked him out onto the street. Then I – I guess it sort of pushed me to reconnect._

_I called him on his 25 th birthday, a few months before his ‘deathdate’. I thought, at first, his mobile might’ve been disconnected. Or maybe he just didn’t want to answer me. I don’t know. _

_Around two months after Daniel’s death, things started to stabilize for me. I started to go out with Daniel’s family more. Even if we hadn’t gotten married yet, they treated me as their daughter anyway. I talked about going back to work. I almost slept through the night. I started looking up other flats – not only could I not afford a two-bedroom on my own salary, I knew staying wouldn’t be helpful for me._

_I’d been looking up flats nearby in the middle of the night, maybe 2 AM, when I heard a commotion on the floor below me. It sounded like an awful lot of feet pounding, and then something rolling across the wooden paneling._

_Deciding that 2 AM was just a good a time to be nosy as any other, I pulled on my robe and left the flat. I saw my neighbors on either side of me do the same as we all traversed down the stairwell to see what had happened. On the floor below, I saw six or seven officers. EMTs. They had a stretcher on them that they were quickly rolling out of the flat again._

_The sheet was pulled well over the deceased’s face, but I could see that it was stained with blood. Inside, I saw blood – in bright spurts on the walls, on the ground, smeared everywhere. It had been a massacre._

_It was humiliating to admit that I didn’t know who the neighbour was. I had been in such a fog after Daniel’s death that I hadn’t spoken to any of them, and they were new in the complex. We weren’t in a bad part of London, though, and I couldn’t imagine any part of London known for something like this. The neighbours and I stared, frozen on the stairwell, because the officers wouldn’t let us get any further._

_An hour or so later, I returned to my flat in a daze._

_The neighbour’s name was Ms. Ashbury. A pensioner. She fed the stray cats on the fire escape, one of the other neighbours mentioned to me, and I took to doing it. It felt like a silent apology, for not knowing who she was before. It gave me something to do._

_And I hate to say it, because such an awful thing had happened, but it gave me a bit of a … renewed lease on life. You never know when your life could just get snuffed out like that. I started to run, to take art classes nearby, and a week passed. That was when I got the phone call._

_It was from Noah’s number, but it didn’t sound like Noah’s voice. The best I can explain it is that he was trying to speak without actually using his voice box. It was just a hoarse, guttural whisper._

_‘You can only turn around,’ he growled, ‘When you’ve touched the end.’_

_I was struck in fear. I asked him where he was. I told him, wherever he was, whatever trouble he was in, I’d come and get him. We could work it out. I wasn’t angry at him anymore. I just wanted my baby brother to come home._

_‘She let him come back. For a cost.’_

_I continued babbling. I was so … scared, in that moment. I couldn’t help but think that she, wherever she was, was right next to him._

_‘I’ve been so stupid, Delilah.’ His voice turned … sadder. I wondered if he was crying. ‘Would pay the cost, if I wanted to turn around?’_

_I told him that of course I would. I’d keep the door unlocked for him. I’d let him move back in. I just wanted my baby brother to get back, and – I thought it would convince him – I told him that I wanted to see him, just once, before his deathdate came around. He laughed, a breathy noise, and said, ‘I knew you wouldn’t.’_

_Then he hung up, and that was the last I heard of Noah. As soon as the phone call cut off, I heard a knock on my front door and went to investigate._

_It was Daniel._

_He was covered in dirt and earthworms, and he was bleeding. His hair was stuck up in several places. God, he was so thin, and he was still wearing what he’d been buried in. In shock, I watched as he stumbled inside, and immediately collapsed. I screamed and called an ambulance._

_There were a dozen diagnoses. Dehydration was the most pressing one, but he was unconscious for a few full days. In that time, I got confirmation that his grave had been dug up. His sister was the one who told me that – that the coffin burst from the inside out, and that the earth had been pulled away from the outside in._

_I don’t know what the official story ended up being. I talked to the police so many times. Eventually, I think they stated that it was an accidental burial – Christ, can you imagine – and it was quietly let go. I didn’t care when the police stopped showing up. I just wanted to sit next to Daniel and hold his cold hand._

_The very last time the police came, it was for a different reason altogether. It was to tell me that Noah’s DNA had been all over Ms. Ashbury’s flat. That some of the blood had been his own, too. That, with how frenzied the killing had been, they were suspecting some sort of severe hallucinogenic. PCP, maybe._

_I told them everything. I was too tired to hide anything from them, and frankly, I was so horrified that I didn’t know if I wanted to. I couldn’t imagine my baby brother killing someone, but after hearing his voice on the phone … I figured my baby brother had changed quite a bit since he first had that dream about his death._

_Daniel eventually woke up in hospital. I was right there, when he did, and he smiled so brightly at me. He leaned up, even if I could tell it hurt, because he wanted to hug me. When he pulled away, he asked where Noah was._

_Before I told him the story, I asked him what he remembered. Apparently, he recalled seeing the woman, but then it all went blank until he woke up in hospital._

_I haven’t told him everything yet. Just that I kicked Noah out and hadn’t heard from him. Daniel’s distressed enough about that, much less finding out his former future brother-in-law was some sort of sick killer. I will tell him. I just want him to recover, first. He had to learn how to walk again. His muscles had atrophied._

_I know what you’re probably thinking. Everyone’s seen the zombie films. Have to make sure Daniel isn’t going to eat my head in the middle of the night, right?_

_I don’t know how to check. To me, he seems the same old Daniel. The only man left in London who owns an actual rubber ducky, who absolutely douses his ice cream with maraschinos, who tries to pretend he isn’t ridiculously allergic to cats. If there’s anything different in him, I haven’t been able to tell. As soon as he was released from hospital, I took him home._

_No. That’s not quite right. I did notice something different in him. Today, actually._

_He’s the one who dropped me off here. I asked him if he wanted to wait just inside. He’s a librarian himself and I know he’d love to see the one in here. And as soon as I asked, he went pale, and he said that he would absolutely, categorically, without a doubt never step one toe in here._

_I don’t know if it’s just instinct, or if he knows something that he isn’t telling me. I haven’t tried to take him to any cemeteries, later._

_I’m still going to marry him. I love him. Life’s too short. Even if the love of your life might technically be undead._

_I don’t know what I believe happened. I don’t believe the accidential burial bullshit. Daniel had been in one grave for days, had his body examined, and had been buried again. Sure, maybe that would’ve happened two hundred years ago, but you don’t just accidentally bury alive people anymore._

_Maybe I just think it’s a miracle._

_I haven’t heard from Noah, but I haven’t expected to. His deathdate’s next week. I haven’t grieved Noah yet. I don’t have any evidence about what happened to him, except that I know the police haven’t caught him. I’ve got no reason to think he’s alive._

_I think I’ll start grieving him next week._

_Statement ends._

There was a beat of silence on the recorder, but it played on. Martin chuckled, a little tense.

_Actually going to let me get to the research details this time, are you, little buddy? Fine, fine. Ehm … let’s see. Everything’s verified, as much as it can be. Daniel Chase does have a death certificate, though far as I can tell it’s not been voided. Little awkward, because a little private library does list Daniel Chase as a current employee, with his picture._

_And Delilah Lopez – no, I guess they did a hyphenated thing? Delilah Lopez-Chase and Daniel Lopez-Chase, aw, isn’t that sweet – is working as a secondary school maths teacher, still. And … they have a two year old girl. Delilah’s declined a follow-up interview._

_A few days after Noah Lopez’s supposed ‘death date’, a body turned up in Kensington matching Noah’s description. Cause of death … mmh. Accidental. Not very specific, is it?_

_What, going to keep going on? I could shut it off, I suppose, but knowing you, you’ll just turn right back on again. I’m not sure what you want me to say. It’s very sad, isn’t it? Of course it is. It’s a tragedy, and nothing anyone could’ve anticipated, and I’m_ really _not sure why this is apparently a surprise to you._

_Not sure what I think about Daniel being the same as he was before death. Same old Daniel. I mean, you don’t go through something like that and be the exact same person, can you? Touched by the End. Sounds very ominous._

_I guess I can’t exactly talk. Not like being an Entity-touched monster is exactly a dealbreaker for me on the feelings front._ The nervous chuckle, again, echoing somewhat around the small office. _Clearly. No, I’m with Delilah on this one. I’d try and work it out. Right, is there anything else you want me to say, or will you be alright with ending the recording?_

The tape ended.

Martin talking to the tape recorder like it was some sort of puppy aside, this was … very, very ominous, indeed.

_Touched by the End …_

Basira had clearly listened to it, from the note. She couldn’t _possibly_ be suggesting some form of resurrection for Martin. That would be absurd. Not only would that cause, at an absolute minimum, to piss off the Web, it was also … well, Frankenstein-esque. They hadn’t gone quite _that_ far, had they?

Then again, the statement did indicate that there were minimal, if any, changes …

Regardless. There was plenty to talk about. Jon put the tape in his pocket and stood, ushering Templeton back into his cage. “Just for a bit,” he cautioned, “Those tunnels are a bit too big for you, down there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another double feature! We've crossed the halfway point and then some! Things are starting to come together. Thank you to everyone who's read, commented, and left kudos'ed on the work so far! I do appreciate reading all of them and seeing what people's fav lines/takeaways are from the chapter.  
> There's less of an established Avatar for the End than there are for the other Entities (Lonely, Eye, etc), so this one is entirely OC. And has already made an appearance, namely in chapter one. ;-)  
> See you all next week!


	9. You Look Like You've Seen A Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief Spiral-related body horror

The tunnels smelled of dry rot as Jon walked with hesitant steps, torch gripped in his hand. For the most part, the tunnels didn’t terrify him as they once did. It seemed _unlikely,_ at best, that somebody would spring upon him and feast upon his course. Still, they weren’t very welcoming, and Jon had to question how he reached the point in his life when ancient, abandoned tunnels were the safest place he could be in. Much better than topside. Perhaps, Jon considered lightly, he ought to live down there. Like a sewer rat.

He saw Basira leaning against the wall adjusting her hijab with one hand, and scrolling through her mobile in the other. It was the smallest light in an otherwise completely darkened tunnel. She looked up as Jon approached, and Jon gave an awkward wave. _Why did you wave? You don’t need to wave. You two aren’t the sort who wave._ Basira didn’t return it.

“You wanted to talk to me about something?” Basira asked, locking her phone and sliding it back into her pocket. Her arms went to cross in front of her. “It better be important, and I don’t appreciate you telling me not to bring Daisy.”

_What?_

Jon cocked his head to the side. “Ehm, no?” He fumbled in his pocket and extracted the note to show her. “You’re the one who wanted to talk to _me._ Look, it’s your handwriting and everything.”

Wordlessly, Basira took the note. She folded it over her finger, examining the back.

Something dark and dreadful settled on Jon’s shoulders. _Shit. A trap. You’re an idiot, Jon, a right idiot._ He clutched his torch a little tighter. The walls felt closer together than they had before as his breathing shuddered. “You didn’t write that note.”

“And you didn’t write this one,” Basira remarked bluntly, extracting her own note from her pocket. There, in Jon’s handwriting, was a simple message:

_Tell Daisy to take lunch. Meet me in the tunnels. -Jon_

“Usually, I don’t listen to strange men inviting me to abandoned tunnels. But, you know,” Basira remarked with a shrug, “Thought it might give me a laugh.”

Although Jon gave her a scathing glare – they did not do _jokes_ here – he received no response. “Do you _know_ who wrote the note, then?” Jon could tell from her tone of voice that she was not asking if Jon knew, but rather if he Knew. He responded with a shake of his head. Unfortunately, the Knowing wasn’t a muscle he could flex. “Whoever did, they’ve got impressive forgery skills. Elias, maybe?”

“Why would Elias want to get us out of the Archives?” Jon muttered. “He usually sends us on a wild goose chase across the UK if he wants us gone for a bit.”

Biting the inside of her lip, Basira pinched Jon’s note again. “It says ‘listen to this’. There was a tape?”

He’d already nearly forgotten, filled with dread of being manipulated _again._ Jon nodded fervently. “Right. Yes. Ehm, a statement about a young man who was killed by the End, but got brought back to life through the sacrifice of a human life. The, uh – You can only turn around when you’ve touched the End. That was said.”

“Turn around?”

“Come back to life,” Jon cleared his throat, “Presumably.”

They fell into silence again. Someone had shown Jon the tape – someone had _wanted_ Jon to know that there was an option, however small the sliver, of returning someone to life, had they died. Jon could only count three people who would even have a passing interest in bringing Martin back – _maybe_ four, counting Lukas, but two were definitely in the tunnels, and one was out taking lunch. 

Elias? No, it couldn’t be. It just wouldn’t make sense. He wouldn’t be all covert about it, secret meetings in the tunnels and the like. Who, precisely, were Basira and Jon going to tell?

Lukas, as a warped show of friendship? No, if Lukas wanted Jon under the control of the Lonely, the _worst_ possible thing he could do was bring back someone Jon desperately wanted to see and be with.

The Web?

Jon looked down at the note again, considering. Why would the Web go to this effort of letting them know, if the Web had been the one to kill Martin in the first place?

“So, Elias, then,” Basira remarked. Snapped from his thoughts, Jon yanked his head up to look at her. A beat passed between them before Jon shook his head.

“No, can’t be. If Elias wanted to let us know this was an option, he would’ve just talked to us in his office. No need for subterfuge. For once.”

Clearly, Basira hadn’t been expecting his answer. She looked at him like Jon had three heads, and he self consciously went to touch at his forehead. Lately he’d been having dreams of growing a third eye, which would be a bizarre if mildly humorous nightmare in normal circumstances. Now, he had felt himself grasping at his forehead more and more, just to make sure that he wasn’t becoming a bit more _obviously_ monstrous.

No. Just rough skin that needed a bit of a wash. “Not _who wrote the note,_ Jon, who cares. I’m talking about the man we’re going to sacrifice to bring Martin back, Jon.”

It was Jon’s turn to look at Basira as if she’d utterly lost it. He widened his eyes and took a step back, holding onto his torch. “Have you – are you _insane?”_ He almost coughed out, and that was when he noticed that Basira did indeed have a firearm strapped to her waist. “Do you just _carry_ that around here? This isn’t America, you can’t just wander down the street with – “

“I keep it in the breakroom,” Basira remarked dismissively, “And I was planning on killing Elias anyway, with him wandering around the Institute so freely. Now I’ve just got an additional good reason to.”

“Have you forgotten that, if you kill Elias, we all _die?”_

“He’s not the Head of the Institute anymore. Lukas is. Acting Head, sure, but I think that’s good enough. _If_ Elias was even telling the truth to us in the first place.”

“You can’t be certain that – that Lukas’ name on the bloody paperwork is enough to keep us all alive.” Jon still wasn’t certain if he believed that particular nit in the knitting – if Elias died, would they _truly_ die? It seemed a foolish safeguard.

Basira’s lips purse. “No. I’m not certain. But I’m not going to stand because just because I’m afraid of dying.”

“Or of getting the rest of us killed,” Jon added, but he knew the words rang hollow. Basira didn’t care about risking her life, and they both knew Daisy was in for a penny, in for a pound. Jon wasn’t certain if his death would be an entirely bad thing, either. Perhaps it would be ridding the world of another monster. “Do you think it’s that simple?” He additionally asked. “Kill Elias, Martin wakes up?”

“Did the tape say anything?”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Well, then maybe your friend the Web can pass it along to their good buddy, the End.” Basira reached for the gun and examined it. “Like I said, Jon, I was going to do this anyway. It’s just nice to have an additional reason.”

Her mind was already made up, clearly. Very human unease rushed through his veins. This was, according to all legal rules that Jon could think of, pre-meditated murder. Then again, hadn’t he seen Elias engage in the very same thing? It was hardly the time to be unscrupulous or picky in his morals.

He didn’t know if killing Elias would bring Martin back. Frankly, he hadn’t come in this morning expecting to (a) exchange his eternal solitude for information or (b) shoot a middle-aged man in cold blood, but that Archivist job description _had_ said ‘other duties may apply’.

It was a small trade. Elias for Martin. A man who had committed evil, a man who had killed, a man who was a maniac – for Martin.

“Okay.” Jon’s voice was quiet. “I’ll go with you.”

“Good. Let me shoot, I’ve got a feeling I’ll have better aim.”

“No argument there.” Jon’s hands went into his pockets. Strange, even after falling so far from his humanity, he was still _nervous._ Around Elias, of all people. “I have a feeling Lukas might approve,” he added weakly, “Elias getting out of the picture.”

“Good.” Basira pushed past Jon towards the front of the tunnels. “Don’t _really_ care. Do you _know_ where Elias is?”

The entire world went dimmer for a second, before Jon nodded and followed along behind her. Knowing was a funny little thing. Certain things, obvious things, were easy. As natural as if he’d came by the information on a large, lit-up sign. “Office. He’s having interviews all day to fill the vacancies.”

“Anyone in right now?”

“Ehm. No,” Jon muttered, one hand going to cover his eye. He had come to realize that covering his eyes let him See things better, even if it felt ridiculous. “No, he’s filling evaluation reports on the last one. Competence, 4/10, presentation, 7/10, CV, 6/10 –”

“That’s all I need to know, Jon.” Jon uncovered his eye as they reached the exit of the tunnels again.

At least nobody would hear a gunshot all the way down in the Archives – and nobody would really miss Elias, either. He hoped the police would take the same approach to ignoring crimes occurring there as they historically did. Together, they exited, and soon, they were standing in Jon’s office from the entrance to the tunnels. Templeton squeaked in greeting, and Jon found himself waving to the rodent before opening his door.

Basira didn’t hesitate as she went into the corridors. Jon followed closely behind, anxiety and paranoia keeping his steps light and quick. They stopped just outside of Elias’ door. Jon could see his head moving back and forth from behind the glass, reading. He stretched his hand out for the doorhandle.

“Jon,” Basira suddenly whispered, reaching over to stop him. “If you don’t think you can handle this, I’m willing to do it on my own. Really.”

“I think I’m far past the point of not being an accomplice in this.” Still, Jon looked down at the floor, hesitating. _It was going to be fine. They were just going to kill Elias Bouchard, Avatar of the Eye, head of the Magnus Institute, the bad guy, and that was fine._ “Go.”

Basira reached forward to push the door open. Elias didn’t even look up from his desk, continually writing on his piece of paper. He raised the pen to dip it in the ink well. “It’s not going to work,” he announced primly.

“Shut up.”

“At least Ms. King’s attempts were somewhat more clever,” Elias continued with a sigh as he looked up from his desk. He stared at Basira, and the gun. “Though points awarded for directness. Much more assertive than the relative _mice_ I’ve spoken with today.” He gestured to the evaluation reports with disgust.

“Shut _up,”_ Basira grunted, taking the safety off the gun. “You’re not walking out of here alive, Elias.”

“No, I imagine rather I’m not. You know, I was going to just lay low after my release from prison. But, no. I’m a workaholic, you see, and thought I could rely on my fellow coworkers.”

“Basira, he’s just going to talk at you,” Jon muttered, and Basira nodded. She stepped forward and centered the firearm on Elias’ forehead.

“Kill me, and you’ll never have Martin back.”

“ _I don’t care.”_

At that, two people spoke at once. Elias uttered, “No, but Jon does –” as Jon put a hand on Basira’s shoulder and said, “Basira, wait –”

They both cut off, but a wide, smug smirk grew over Elias’ face. It was so infuriating that Jon almost told Basira to go _well enough ahead._ Basira lowered the gun slightly. “You’ve got two minutes to talk.”

“Let me set my watch.” Elias reached for the elegantly extravagant timepiece he wore on his wrist. The other hand went to brush his slicked hair back. “Two minutes, you said?”

“ _Elias.”_

His eyes flicked up to the pair. “It may seem unlikely, but I rather _do_ think I want Martin Blackwood alive as much as you do. I’ve spoken with Lukas, who seems to believe that Martin is instrumental in preventing the Extinction.” Elias’ forefinger started tapping on the glass face. “And I’m rather keen on preventing that from happening. I thought I would be able to do it on my own, but you two _are_ rather nosy. If you’d just left things well enough alone, I would’ve simply brought Martin back. Now you’ve made things messy.”

“Who says we can’t bring Martin back without you? We’ve got Jon.”

“Jon, who looks like he hasn’t slept in a week and who, in all actuality, is really rather dim.”

Jon grunted lowly, in the back of his throat. There had been once, perhaps in Uni, when he had been obsessed with proving his intelligence. People had to know that he was _smart,_ and suddenly, he felt an extreme amount of sympathy for what Georgie had to go through. They’d gone to trivia night at a pub once. It hadn’t gone well.

Now, he didn’t care if Elias thought he was stupid. “We could figure it out,” he argued.

“Right. Of _course_ you could. Now, Jon, tell me. Say Basira here did shoot me.” Elias cocked his finger and forethumb, pointing it at Jon. “Bang. What would you do next?”

There was a pause between Basira and Jon. They made eye contact, seeking answers in one another’s eyes, but didn’t find any. Jon stayed silent and looked down at the ground.

“You have to admit that for the past few months, Jon, all you’ve _really_ been doing is jumping from one Entity to another, getting yourself in situations and killing people in an attempt to extricate yourself.” Elias heaved a large sigh. “Frankly, I feel a bit like a father who’s left his child on the playground to cause trouble too long.”

“Is that meant to be _helpful?”_ Jon grunted.

“You can’t just _resurrect_ people touched by the End willy-nilly. An agent _has_ to give permission, in some sort. Otherwise, it just leads to a rather nasty undeath,” he remarked, “Unless you’ve forgotten our dear friend Gerard Keay?”

He had not. Jon recalled Gerard mentioning that it hurt, being alive but not, dead but not. He thought of Martin going through the same thing. Perhaps not bound to a Leitner, but bound to something nonetheless, and he flinched.

“ _Secondly,_ even if you do manage to resurrect Martin, he _happens_ to be buried in a little wooden box six feet under the earth. While Martin debatably might have the physical strength to beat through his coffin, I _really_ doubt that he can climb his way through six feet of packed soil. And I don’t think any of you have asked where he’s even buried. Which is … frankly. A little disrespectful.”

“And I’m taking it that you won’t tell us where he’s buried.”

The smile Elias flashed them was bleached white. “ _Very_ good, Basira.”

“And what do you plan to do about the first thing, exactly? Getting permission from an _Avatar of the End?_ ”

“Let’s just reach my calendar book.” Reaching in one of the large drawers in his desk, Elias withdrew a leather-bound planner. “Tomorrow, 2 PM, oh … how, odd. Amara Monti. I certainly don’t think _she’s_ applying for a position here.’

There was an awkward silence before Elias let out a dry, smug laughter. “You don’t even know who that is, do you?”

Jon did not, and he desperately wished he did know. “Let’s _see,_ Jonathan. The mysterious girlfriend in the Lopez statement? The mortician who greeted you over the body? The woman that Lukas saw _kill_ Martin?”

“They’re all the same,” Jon realized, “The agent of the End.” He had _met_ her. Spoken with her, even lost his composure in front of her. Cold fear flooded his veins, Christ, if he’d just been a little more _rational -_ “I. I don’t –”

“Don’t start _stuttering_ in front of me, Jon, you’re more professional than that. Now, here’s what’s going to happen,” Elias started, dipping his pen in the ink well again. “I’m going to secure Ms. Monti’s permission to resurrect Martin Blackwood. Then, we’re going to commit a murder. I’m not particularly fussed about who, honestly, but she may have some ideas. _Then,_ we are going to retrieve Martin, and everything will go back to relative normal.”

The pen hit paper as Elias continued filling out the performance reports. Jon saw that the thick yellow raincoat in the back was missing, now.

“Or. I could kill you right now,” Basira announced through gritted teeth. “I’m not positive that’s still not the best decision.”

“Basira,” Jon tried weakly, and Elias glanced up at them.

“Ms. Hussain. Do you _really_ want to cause the end of the world? Fine, shoot me, let Martin stay dead. The Extinction comes and wipes us all out anyway. But, you’ll have a miraculous few months of being unemployed.”

“That’s not going to happen. Lukas wants Sims.”

“Yes, and while I’m certain Peter believes that Jon will make a fantastic assistant, I don’t think that’s the case.” Elias waved one piece of paper in the air, drying the instinct. “Jon’s a bit too obsessed with _people_ to be a particularly effective agent of the Lonely. Martin, at least, knows when to keep his head down and blinders on.”

Jon wasn’t sure if he wanted this impromptu evaluation report like this. It was somehow insulting to both him _and_ Martin. “I don’t like the implication that I’m incompetent.”

“No, Jon. In that regard, you’re _too_ competent. Martin’s a bit too yielding to be of use otherwise.”

He wasn’t sure he liked the implication that Martin was incompetent, either, but that was that. Jon turned to the side and placed a hand on Basira’s shoulder, whispering in her ear. “I think we ought to listen to him.”

“You’re kidding.’

“It’s quite literally the fate of the entire world on the table, Basira. I don’t think we can take the risk.’

Basira’s dark eyes flashed at him, but she lowered the gun. “Do you really believe that, or is this all because of Martin?”

“I’m not so completely gone as to value Martin’s life more than the entire world. Don’t worry.”

“I can hear you both.”

Both Basira and Jon sent caustic glares to Elias, who gave a shrug. “I would advise sitting tight until I speak with Ms. Monti about what to happen. When we have to plan our murder, I’ll let you know.”

“How,” Jon asked weakly, “Are you going to get her to agree?”

Elias didn’t respond. Jon wasn’t sure if he was going to get an answer from him, ever, but he eventually opened his mouth. “I’ve recently come into information that Ms. Monti doesn’t _quite_ have as much faith in the Web as I would’ve been led to believe. After all, we are representatives of the Eye. We _know._ The Web simply …” A delighted, smug smile pressed onto his face. “ _Senses._ They see one part of the elephant, but we can shine a light on the entire zoo. _”_

“This isn’t over, Elias.” The gun was nevertheless holstered against her hip. “You’re not going to be walking out at the end of all this. I hope you know that.’

“I look forward to our morning draw. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Elias said, “I do have someone interviewing for a new librarian assistant position at 4 PM.”

Jon paused before obediently turning around for the door. There was a pinched expression on Basira’s face that Jon could understand. He _wanted_ Elias to pay for what he had done. To _die._ To be _killed,_ to prove that he could be killed like anyone, and it was so _unsatisfying_ to see him continue to mark up papers and reports like he had nothing to be sorry for.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Basira murmured under his breath, and Jon let out a self-conscious chuckle.

“Nothing could be farther from the truth, but … I think Elias was being honest back there. Mostly. We’ll see tomorrow, if Ms. Monti does arrive.” In all of her dead-oriented glory. “If she doesn’t, we’ll go back in. Won’t even let him breathe a word. Promise.”

“I’ll take you up on that.” As they rounded the corner from Elias’ office, they saw Daisy walking down the hall. She made eye contact, and the tall, bleached-blond woman raised her hands in a universal gesture of ‘ _what the hell is going on’._

Basira winced. “I’ll debrief you,” she stated, turning towards Jon in farewell. Jon gave another awkward wave, this time towards Daisy, _stop that, what’s going on with this new waving thing you’re doing._ Basira put a hand on Daisy’s shoulder and they turned the corner before Jon could overhear Basira’s murmured explanation.

It was nearly time to go home, Jon considered, and it had been a long enough day that Jon knew he wouldn’t be conscious for much longer. He was going to take Templeton home. It just didn’t feel safe leaving him in the Archives, and if the agent of the End was going to be present tomorrow … well, poor little Templeton didn’t need to experience anyone’s wrath.

Jon approached his office before he saw something out of the corner of his eye. At first, it was nothing more than a vividly colored smudge, but as he turned, the tall, bulky shape was unmistakable. Martin, quickly turning the corner.

_Not again._

Perhaps it _was_ just a grief-induced hallucination. Perhaps Jon missed his old friend so much that he was seeing him. If that were the case, though, he had hoped the hallucinations would be a little more _friendly,_ and weren’t constantly _running away from him._

He took off at a mad dash through the corridors. Although he still put weight on the cane, Jon just couldn’t move as quickly as the spectre. His cane tapped frantically against the floor as he went. Every time he turned a corner, he saw Martin just up ahead, one corner ahead of him. “Martin!” Jon called out. The corridors weren’t empty yet, and he was rather positive that he was losing whatever good-will he had from the other Institute workers. He pushed and shoved past them in an attempt to keep track of … whatever he was following, because it wasn’t _Martin._ Couldn’t be.

There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to where they were going. For some time, Jon was running in circles around corridors before the spectre seemed to finally think of a destination.

“Martin!” Jon called out again, but he didn’t move. Jon could get more glimpses of him as they ran, and it was definitely Martin. A little red in the face, a little disheveled looking, but nevertheless Martin in his obnoxiously colored plaid clothing. And Martin was heading into the tunnels.

Jon didn’t hesitate, jogging headlong into the darkness without so much as a torch. As he did, he still called Martin’s name, sounding a little hoarse.

Jon ran into a door in the middle of the hallway.

The wood smacked against his face, knocking him flat against his back. “ _Shit,”_ he groaned. Jon rolled onto his stomach and settled there for a second. He no longer heard Martin’s footsteps around the corridors, which meant that whatever vision he had was long gone. And all he had for it was a sore nose. Jon touched it. No blood. Well, thank god for small mercies. His cane had clattered to the floor, and Jon quickly retrieved it.

“Helen, why the hell have you got to put your door _there,”_ Jon complained as he rolled onto his back and sat up. He touched the back of his skull. Everything all together. At least the soreness in his nose was fading already.

The door was the same as usual. A smooth, old-looking sort of wood. Except … there was a small gash missing out of the top of it. Not enough to break through the door, but someone had definitely taken something sharp to it. Hnh.

That was when the realization hit him. The personification of the _Spiral,_ the agent of the fear that you couldn’t trust what you were seeing in front of you. The agent of the fear that you were slowly going _insane._

_Christ._

Jon sat on the floor for some time, uncertain of whether to laugh or cry. While it was fortuitous to know that he wasn’t experiencing delusions caused from grief, he … couldn’t help but feel disappointed, in a way. _What were you thinking?_ Jon asked himself, mocking his own mind. _What, that it actually was Martin? That he’d turn around and give you a wave?_

Still, he didn’t have the time nor the responsibility to be haunted by the Spiral. Perhaps this was a cry for attention. Jon stood and knocked on the door for a few times (politeness, he supposed), before opening it. He didn’t step in. “Helen,” he complained, “You hit me with your door.”

At first, he saw nothing but a long, empty hallway. It looked nice, inviting. Always did. A thick red carpet, beautifully Gothic walls. At the end of the corridor, he could see a warm, plush chair and a roaring fireplace. Bookshelves were lining the wall there. _You angler fish, you, you know what I like._

Suddenly, Helen stepped forward. It was as if she’d been hiding in the corner of the corridor where Jon couldn’t see, except that there feasibly wouldn’t have been room for her to hide there. Jon supposed that didn’t matter much.

“Archivist,” Helen greeted politely. There was always something irregular about Helen, something just-so off. Not in the subtle way that agents of the Stranger did (and, Jon believed, Helen would be offended if Jon made the connection), but as if she were a human art movement. Impressionism, cubism, Dadaism, surrealism, and a little bit of photorealism, all come to life in one person. Helen looked at him with one eye perfectly realistic but just two sizes two big, and another eye that was partially melting and dropping down onto her nose. Her lips smiled and also frowned.

Jon rapped his knuckles on the door. “Door. Hit me. Try not to do that again, please, I can’t exactly re-adjust myself if you break my face.”

“I didn’t _try_ … to hit you. It seems so hard. Being in one place. Not being out of another. Is it hard, Archivist?”

“Fantastically, I’ve got a stress ulcer.”

“Oh,” Helen cooed sympathetically. “I have those in my mind sometimes.” One long, angular finger reached forward to the back of her head. She had long curls that seemed to move with her, occasionally re-orienting itself into a new shape entirely. Jon watched as she went from long square-shaped curls to a beehive that seemed to faintly … buzz. “Do you want to see?”

“No, Helen, I don’t want to see,” Jon replied in annoyance. “I want to know why you’ve been sending Martin after me.’

“Martin! Dear boy. Dear, dear boy.”

“Yes, well. He died. Which I’m sure you know. So I don’t know _why_ you’re sending his ghost, or whatever, after me, but – “

“Sssh,” Another finger, this one with the relative texture and shape of a scrap of wood, pressed against his cheek. “Died?”

“Yes, Helen. He died. A fire.”

“So _strange,_ death, isn’t it?” Helen let out a long sigh. “To not be somewhere. Permanently. You all are so … _stubborn.”_

Every once in a while, Jon could see the Helen Richardson that was. Wearing a smart dress suit, large white ball earrings, a matching faux-pearl necklace around her neck. Long natural hair that was tied back into a sharp bun. Even her eyes focused and settled on her face.

And then it would morph, change, and suddenly her hair was made out of seaweed. Jon caught a scent of the ocean and flinched instinctively. “Christ, it’s impossible arguing with you. You _know_ Martin died, you’ve been sending his _ghost_ after me. Why?”

“I don’t send _ghosts,_ Archivist, there’s only one Entity that does _ghosts_ and I really don’t like them all that much,” Helen explained. Her fingers grew very long, enough that Jon heard them scraping onto the floor and then … going into the floor. Brilliant. “The End is so … _serious,_ don’t you think?”

“What are you saying? That – that – that the _End_ is making me see Martin all the time? Seeing his ghost?”

“ _Nooooo,”_ Helen corrected, “I think _Martin_ is making you see _Martin_ all the time.”

“What do you mean?”

Helen visibly became annoyed. “I hate repeating myself, Archivist.”

“You haven’t told me the first time!”

“Nooooo. But I _have_ told the Eyeball, haven’t I?”

Jon blinked in confusion, trying to decipher the strange woman’s words. She frowned so hard that her lips started to pull down her chin and onto her neck. Jon saw them steadily creep down onto her breast bone as Helen yanked back one of her fingers, pointing towards the gouge on the door.

“ _Elias_ was here,” Jon realized. “Elias did this to your door.”

“It was such a lovely door. Such a big axe.”

Jon didn’t like Helen. He didn’t trust her, didn’t want to work with her, but his life had quickly become a game of ‘try to get as many Entities to like and trust me as possible’. Besides, even if he didn’t _like_ Helen, he _hated_ Elias.

“I’m sorry,” Jon murmured. He raised a hand and ran it over the gouge. Helen moved one of her fingers over to stroke the back of Jon’s hand, leaving behind a residue that felt a little like maple syrup. No. _Was_ maple syrup. “Why?”

“Why else would an eyeball attack a door? He wanted to _know_ things from me.”

“What did he want to know?”

The cross look passed over her face again, and Jon bit the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry for making you repeat yourself, Helen, I _am._ I’m just trying to understand. I am – you know I’m sort of part of the eyeball, too.”

She raised the flesh of her hand to press against Jon’s cheek. In doing so, her long, pointed fingers ran through Jon’s air. It got pulled out of the loose bun he’d been collecting it in and fell to his shoulders, and he felt Helen’s fingers grow to comb through it. _Needed a bit of a brush anyway,_ Jon told himself, even if a shiver ran down his spine.

“Don’t be so mean to yourself. You’re not an eyeball yet. Martin thinks _so_ highly of you.” Before Jon could clarify that point, Helen sighed and retracted her hand from Jon’s face. Jon quickly tried to gather his hair back into a bun again. “ _Fine._ I’ll tell you. Only because I do like you, Archivist. The eyeball wanted to know if I had seen Martin after his death.”

“W – what? Why would you see Martin _after_ his death?”

“I was so mean to the End, before, I feel _sooo,”_ Helen emphasized, voice reverberating, “Poorly about it. They do one thing nice. Sometimes, they like to keep their people. Like _I_ do,” she stated, gesturing towards the maze of corridors behind her. Jon saw that the fireplace at the end had gone out, and the entire room had been replaced with a sanitary morgue. “That’s nice. The End lets them wander around after they’ve died. But not where _people_ can see them. You _work_ here, so you can _see_ them sometimes. The eyeball sees them _all_ the time. He doesn’t like it very much. They wander around not in _your_ world, which means it doesn’t make _sense,_ so _I_ can see them, too.”

“The End’s been letting Martin wander around, as a ghost,” Jon clarified. “And. Elias has been seeing him all the time.” 

“ _Yes,_ the eyeball wanted to know if it was _my_ doing or the _End’s. Certainly_ not mine. I would’ve changed more things about him. He looks like a thumb. _”_

“But why would the End allow Martin to wander around like that? Why not just _keep_ him dead?”

“You see, that’s what I told him that he liked so much. I said the End must _really_ like the thumb. _Maybe_ that agent even wants to bring him back, some day, so she keeps him …” Helen waved her hand. It dissolved into fractals. “Around.”

_I’ve recently come into information that Ms. Monti doesn’t quite have as much faith in the Web as I would’ve been led to believe._

_Christ. The End didn’t kill him and be done with it._

“He’s been spending time _here,_ you know,” Helen added, “Because the eyeball _refuses_ to admit he can see him. I _tell_ Martin, I said, you know the eyeball can see you when you flip him off like that, but the eyeball pretends not to. It’s so _silly._ I love it.”

“Can. Can Martin communicate with people who can see him, I mean – “ Jon took a deep breath. “Can he touch things? See people? _Talk_ to me, if he wanted?”

“Oh, he can touch things, yes, he likes to touch things, especially when he’s not meant to,” Helen rambled, “But it takes so much out of him, and he’s scared of actually dying, you see. He nearly _did_ actually die when he wrecked that office of his. I thought it was so fun.” She reached back to gesture towards the mess of corridors. One of the doors slammed open like a gunshot, making Jon jump. “He threw everything everywhere. He was so angry about dying. Silly. So he tries not to touch anymore. If he doesn’t need to. Sometimes he needs to.”

There was a lot to take in. A lot to conceptualize. A confirmation, somewhat small, as to the truth of what Elias was saying – the End didn’t necessarily want Martin dead-dead. Perhaps she was keeping him as a ghost as some sort of insurance policy. Jon would take that.

“Do you know where he is now?” Jon asked, voice a little softer. Helen considered, pressing her hand against her cheek. It started to melt the hand.

“ _Noooo._ Can’t say I do. I’m sure he’s around.”

That was enough to go on, at least. Confirmation that Martin wasn’t _quite_ dead. He looked up at her indecipherable face, and nodded. “Thank you, Helen. That’s actually very helpful. _You’ve_ been very helpful.”

“I love to help, Archivist.’

“I’m sorry about your door.” Jon looked back towards the gouge again, and Helen reached for it. She stroked it a few times, and some of the peeling wood leaked onto her skin, her fingers. “I’ll – file a complaint against Elias about that. Maybe.” He would not.

Helen kept stroking the door, and for a second, Jon saw Helen Richardson. “It’s going to diminish the resell value, that’s for sure,” she sighed, before she began to morph in a way that Jon could only describe as _Composition with Red Blue and Yellow [Mondrian 1929],_ and that was when Jon started to walk back out of the door.

“I’ll just leave you to it, then.” Boxy fingers waved back at him.

“See you, Archivist.”

The door shut – and then vanished. Jon took a deep breath and pressed his hands against his temples. He _hated_ going in there. Always felt like marbles were rattling around in his head. Turning around, Jon started to stumble back out of the tunnels.

 _Well, you always feel like you’re being watched a bit anyway,_ Jon thought to himself. _Now you just might have some justification._ He got back to the Archives and walked back to his office. _Is he watching me now? Is it egoistic of me to assume that Martin’s just watching me all the time?_

It was late, by the time he got back. Jon wasn’t particularly surprised. Even with a step or two in Helen’s dimension, time couldn’t be trusted. Most of the workers had left, and Jon didn’t doubt that Basira and Daisy had also gone for the night.

“Do you sleep as a ghost, Martin?” Jon asked conversationally as he began to gather his things together. He threw his coat on. “Or do you just haunt the halls of the Archive?”

Oh, _yes,_ he was talking out loud to a ghost. University-aged Jon would’ve been horrified at him for such an action. _Admitting_ that _ghosts_ were _real?_ Ridiculous.

Tying the sash around his coat tight, Jon stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around his empty office. ‘J-O-N’ read the spiderweb, in the corner, and he tilted his head to the side. “Did you do that,” he muttered to himself curiously. “Trying to talk to me?”

Nothing. Jon didn’t even know if Martin was there. He supposed he would have to operate on blind faith that Martin was listening. If he was listening.

Probably wasn’t Martin’s doing, anyway.

He started to get himself together, tying his sash tight around his coat. “I have missed you, Martin,” Jon admitted in a softer voice, somewhat embarrassed. “I feel like I haven’t had much time to process it. Truthfully, it isn’t as if I saw you often before, with your work with Lukas. But. Of course I _miss_ you.” Even softer. “I miss everyone.”

Jon shook his head. Ridiculous.

“You know, it’s almost glad that you’re not about to talk to me. I can’t imagine how upset you’d be if you found out the agreement I made with Lukas.” Jon reached for his wallet and stuck it in his pocket. “Oh, haven’t heard?” He asked whimsically. “Promised that I’d be his assistant once I got closure on your death. I _know,_ you must be thinking, Jon, how can you possibly be _that_ intelligent _and_ composed _and_ ridiculously, awfully good-looking? Well.”

His files were organized on the desk. “The truth is, Martin, I suppose I wasn’t thinking. He caught me at – ehm. A bad time, I guess you’d call it. That’s what he did to you, too, wasn’t it? Wait until I was in a coma and your mother was dead before catching you. Sneaky, frankly.

I’m not _particularly_ worried about it. I mean, I _will_ be, when it comes. But there’s bigger things to worry about now. And. Besides.” Jon cleared his throat. “I go with him, you stay safe here with the others. I have eminent faith in you all.

I don’t know what Lukas’ plan is, with me. But if it’s stopping the Extinction, well – seems particularly up my alley, isn’t it? Even if I do have to – well. To be alone, forever. That part’s not a surprise. Not to get obnoxiously melodramatic, Martin, but I always thought that I … “

Oh.

Daisy was standing in his doorway.

Jon dropped the files he’d been holding onto the floor, scattering them to pieces. Daisy immediately stepped in and knelt on the floor to help him with that. They worked in awkward silence for a few seconds, before Daisy asked, “Er, are you … ?”

“Fine! No, fine. I’m just talking to – to a ghost,” Jon finished lamely. “To Martin.”

Daisy’s expression clearly indicated that she thought Jon had completely lost it.

“No, I ran into Helen – literally, honestly – and she told me. The End can keep them as ghosts if they like, and that’s what they did. Which proves to Elias that the End isn’t so keen as killing Martin as the Web is, and oh, Christ, did Basira explain this all to you? It’s getting a bit complicated.”

Daisy paused, contemplative. When their hands brushed together, as an inevitable consequence of gathering papers together, Jon was concerned with how cold and dry her hands were. Daisy hadn’t looked well since they’d gotten back from the Buried, but he’d never heard a word of complaint from her mouth.

“Basira explained it,” she finally confessed, “And … honestly, Jon, what am I going to say? ‘No, I don’t believe in ghosts?’”

“It would be rather odd if that was where you drew the line, yes.”

“Do you know he’s here? Listening?”

“No,” Jon admitted. “But he might be.”

She seemed to think on it for a few moments as the files were put back on the desk. Finally, Daisy rose a hand in a shy wave to the office and called out, “Hi, Martin.” She turned to Jon with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, he can’t _respond._ I just, wanted to let him know we know. If he’s there.” Jon realized that it sounded unusually insane, probably unwell, to his own ears. But it’d been a modicum of comfort. Templeton pressed himself against the cage to try and sniff out Daisy’s hand, and Daisy stuck her hand in the cage to pet him.

“I’m sorry,” Jon remarked, “About Basira and I going to kill Elias without telling you. Still not positive about who wrote the note in Basira’s handwriting. Unless – “

“No, Jon, it wasn’t me.’

“Sorry.”

“I’m not mad. It’s probably for the best. I don’t have bloodlust like Melanie did, I just –” A soft sigh. “It’s for the best that I err on the side of caution in terms of violence when it’s not absolutely necessary. If I start seeing him as a target, then I’ll fuck everything up. Kills me to say it, but there it is. I get it.” Daisy ran her fingers down Templeton’s tail, giving the tip a tap with her finger. “Kind of disappointed you didn’t kill the son of a bitch, though.”

Jon nodded in grim agreement. “I know. I wish – I wish we didn’t _need_ him quite so much as we do.” A pause, and then Jon continued: “Maybe – when I grow into my powers more – “

“No.” Daisy extracted her hand from the cage. “No, Jon, it’s not worth it. You might think you’ll be powerful, you’ll might be powerful, but you’ll also be unreliable. Serving the whims of a god that really doesn’t give a toss about you. Even if you’re not quite as all-seeing as Elias did, we can trust you.”

It was a touching statement. Jon looked up at her questioningly.

“I mean, you run off like a dickhead as it _stands._ How bad will you be when you barely even remember who we are?”

“That’s a fair point. I, er,” Jon mumbled, “Trust you, too.”

“Don’t make this a thing. I know you do. Big happy family. Are you heading home for the night?”

“Yeah.” He hoisted the rat cage underneath his arm. Templeton, unhappy with the change in motion, scurried back into his plastic igloo. “Basira already headed home?”

“Yep. Took the tape on your desk, wanted to listen to it for herself. I stuck around until Elias left, wanted to make sure that he wasn’t up to something. Want to share a cab?”

That worked well enough for him. Jon nodded and went to the door of his office. Before he walked out with Daisy, Jon turned around to face the whole of it. Now, with Templeton tucked underneath his arm, it seemed truly empty. “Goodnight, Martin,” he announced to empty air. “Sleep well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done! 
> 
> As a general comment, I do plan to have this fic (and, god help me, another longfic for TMA) done by April to prepare/celebrate for season 5! So if the end of March rolls around and suddenly five chapters get published at once, that's why. 
> 
> I have a lot of feelings about ghosts in TMA, and I really like to associate the End with them as a sort of general 'fear of death, fear of undeath' situation. So dear Martin has really been with us the entire time, silently watching and (probably) judging. Who says that ghosts can't have nefarious plans? 
> 
> Thank you all to those who have read/kudos'ed/left comments! I love watching people react to each new twist and turn. :-)


	10. Avatar of the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Existential dread, feelings of impending doom

All of the lights were off in Jon’s office. Jon had placed his jacket up over the window inset on his door to cover the hallway light, leaving him in utter pitch blackness. Thankfully, with Templeton resting peacefully in his cage at Jon’s flat, he didn’t have to worry about the rat breaking the silence.

He was sitting there, at his desk, eyes squeezed tight. An empty mug of coffee sat next to him. 

It was 2:15 PM, and Jon was trying very hard to _Know_ things. Everything felt so nebulous and shadowy, even still – Jon felt that he rather couldn’t get a drink of water, but at any moment, someone could squirt a water gun at him.

He had seen Amara Monti, the avatar of the End, come into the Archives, but he hadn’t come out to greet her. It just hadn’t seem wise. Instead, he, Basira, and Daisy had huddled around the window in his office door to watch her walk primly down the hallway of the Archives.

That was certainly the woman who had been near Martin’s body in the morgue, though Jon genuinely didn’t know if she was a trained medical professional or just a fan. Long ringlets sat around her shoulders. She had a soft, warm-looking sort of face that was tinged with accents of pink and red. Her jumper was the sort that Jon had sometimes seen people’s nans wear – thick and pastel.

Jon expected to get some feeling of foreboding from her – of _death_ – of impending doom. _Nothing._ Just strong curiosity, and the cloying scent of … ah, something he couldn’t place. Something somehow strongly flowery and acrid.

Then she looked at them, through the window of Jon’s office, and all three of them darted to the doorframe to hide. There was no malice in her eyes, and yet Jon did not want to meet them.

A healthy concern, Jon later thought. That was all it was. A healthy concern for an agent of death. None of them wanted to die that day. She had passed uneventfully to Elias’ office, and Jon had gone to his desk to try to Know what was going on. The others had vacated to give him some privacy.

He couldn’t See anything. Jon was just growing a faint headache and feeling more stupid by the second. Sitting in a darkened room straining himself to simply get a _feeling_ about what was happening.

In front of him, his office door opened. Light shone down on him, bright and blaring from the hallway, and Jon let out a quiet groan. _Christ, I was nearly falling asleep. That was almost nice. Should sleep on my desk more often._ He peered up blearily to see the intruder, scrambling for his glasses with the other hand.

“Have you found anything?” Basira’s voice as she stepped in. Daisy had heavier footfalls behind her. “I think they’re finishing up.”

Jon placed his glasses back on and pinched his nose. “No,” he muttered miserably. “And I feel stupid trying.”

“You looked a bit like you’re trying to move objects with your mind,” Daisy reflected, “Professor X.”

“Have you got any sense of how it went?” Jon asked. “Not sense, but –”

“Do I just know things? Look with my very normal, human eyes? No. Elias has got _violin_ music playing, of all things, I think to prevent us from eavesdropping.”

Damn. The man had prepared. Jon rolled his sweater up to his elbows, to which they immediately fell back into his wrist. He didn’t _like_ this, this _not_ knowing. It was unnatural to him. All he wanted to know was the terms of negotiation – _Was Ms. Monti willing to bring Martin back?_

Or should he finally come to terms with what had happened? _That_ option nevertheless held the dangerous caveat of having to sell his soul to Peter Lukas. Not that he wouldn’t have to go anyway, but it seemed so much less … _meaningful,_ somehow, if Martin wasn’t here.

Footsteps sounded from down the hallway. Jon didn’t recognize them as one of his coworkers. As Jon heard them grow closer, he began to get filled with a sudden … he supposed he would call it an _existential dread. What’s the point of fighting back?_ It seemed to call to him. _You know that your story ends. What you do before the last page is just decoration._

The disquietude settled across him like a lead blanket, stopping his breath. Jon looked around to see that neither Daisy nor Basira were breathing, either, as a shadow passed in front of the door. Jon’s jacket shifted enough to reveal the person behind the window. It was Ms. Monti.

When she had come in, her expression had been neutral. She was clearly one of those people whose resting face had a small smile etched into it, no matter what was going on behind her eyes. Now, her lips were drawn into a tight frown. Her ringlets had been drawn into a low ponytail behind her.

Something began to erupt from the dread, like a choked weed somehow growing through cracked asphalt – _she didn’t agree to the deal,_ Jon Realized to himself, _she didn’t respond to Elias’ request to bring Martin back. She didn’t even listen to him._

Rejection, fierce and determined, shot through him. It momentarily brought him out of his existential worries as he reached for the door handle. “Jon, Jon, don’t –” Basira hissed as Jon yanked the door open, stepping out right in front of the Avatar of death.

She stopped in her tracks, looking over him with a quiet neatness. “Ms. Monti,” Jon greeted politely – if a bit hurriedly – and stuck out his hand. “Jonathan Sims. Archivist.”

“We’ve met, Archivist,” Amara responded. Her voice was higher than Jon would’ve expected, but not altogether unpleasant to listen to. “In case you’ve forgotten.”

“The morgue. Right. I didn’t really – know who you were, back then,” Jon admitted, “It was all a bit much.”

“I know. You were rather fussy.”

She unfolded her hands from behind her back, letting them fall to her sides. Precisely as the statements said – red lipstick, matching red nailpolish. This had been the last sight Martin had seen before he died.

Because this woman had killed him.

The thought – that _realization,_ really – gave him the anger he needed to continue forward. He wasn’t going to let her just walk out of here with the resurrected life of his friend in her hand. He’d die trying. And, Christ, Jon was positive that that was growing more likely by the second.

“You didn’t agree to what Elias offered you. I don’t know what he offered you in exchange – “

“Nothing.”

“ _Nothing,”_ Jon grumbled. Elias wasn’t precisely a good negotiator, was he? Not a very personable man. He had once _admired him_ for his management skills _,_ for God’s sake, as if he should ever admire that greasy little weasel. “Right.”

“Nothing but the promise that it would save the world.”

“What, and that wasn’t enough to tempt you?” Jon didn’t like the tone growing in his voice, but he found it difficult to ignore. He imagined that Basira and Daisy were not watching him with any sort of real confidence. “Just the world, that’s all.”

Something flashed in Amara’s eyes. They were hazel, but in that moment, Jon felt like they were _burrowing_ into him like daggers. He instinctively raised a hand to cross over his stomach.

Different tactic, then.

“Why didn’t you agree with him? To bring Martin Blackwood back?” Jon shifted. “You’ve kept him undead as a ghost. Left him haunting about the Archives. It _must_ at least be a thought in your mind.”

Amara reached into her bag for a moment, withdrawing a journal. It was bound in black leather. _Please just – cows, or snakes, or whatever else you make leather out of. I’m going to lose my bloody mind if I find another human skin bound book._ She flipped through it, and Jon saw that it was chock-full of … names? Telephone numbers? He could see the title etched onto the spine. _Memento Mori._

“This book,” she explained softly, “Contains the dates that everyone will die.”

 _Oh._ Jon immediately averted his eyes from the pages, simply not wanting to know. A Leitner, he presumed, though he hadn’t known them to be quite so information-oriented. Quite _so_ helpful. Though he supposed, the burden of that kind of knowledge would drive most insane. It would certainly do it for him.

“Seems small, for six billion-odd people.” _Stop trying to pretend like that’s normal._ He watched Amara thumb through it. “Is that what you use? In your, um, work?”

That seemed to amuse her well enough. “No. I have been able to sense times and manners of death for some time, Archivist, but it’s a handy reference nevertheless.” She sent him a look, relaxing somewhat. “My scope is somewhat smaller than the Eye.”

“Dead, dying …”

“Ghosts, dreams, dread,” Amara finished. She offered Jon a conspiratory smile. “It’s a living.”

She didn’t seem as … _edgy_ as he expected an agent of the End to be. Most of the Avatars seemed to have gone completely off the deep end, but Amara looked at him with clear humor on her face. _Understanding,_ even. Jon felt himself responding with similar humour. “I have to say, this Avatar business really is a terrible post. Benefits? None. Just the ceaseless burden of Knowing.”

“I don’t know. Being able to kill whoever I like, however I like _works_ for me. I play games over it, sometimes. Gotten quite into Candy Crush, though I know most usually go for things like chess or fiddling.” Amara rattled off, and Jon flinched. _Don’t get too comfortable here, Jon, don’t let her lull you into a false sense of security._ At the end of the day, she was an agent of the End. “Don’t fuss so, Archivist. I’m not killing _you_ today.”

Her thumb settled onto one page of her Leitner. “Elias Bouchard,” she announced quietly, “Has more than one death date. Two, actually.” 

_He what?_ Jon tried to step forward to examine the page for himself ( _surely there’s got to be enough ‘B’s in between Bouchard and Blackwood that you don’t accidentally get a glimpse),_ but Amara soon snapped the book shut. In the same gesture, she bared her teeth at him – all canines. 

They returned to relative normal when Jon took a step back, raising his hands in defense.

“How can that be possible?” Jon asked instead. _He’s going to die more than once? I mean, thank god he’s going to die, someday, and do the world a favour – but how?_

Amara shrugged her shoulders. “It’s happened to people before, for a bunch of reasons. None of them good. You develop an instinct for this sort of thing, – you don’t trust someone who dies more than once. It never means well.”

“Which is why you said no.”

“Which is why I said no.”

“Well – “ Jon argued, raising his hands and placing them against his temples. “How many death dates have I got?” 

Another flip through the pages. Amara was humming to herself. Jon didn’t recognize the tune, though he understood from the general candor and melody that it was probably a funeral dirge of some kind. “One. Would you like to know when it is? I _do_ have to warn you, if I tell you, it _is_ set in stone.”

That made Jon reel against the door. _I mean, wouldn’t it be better to know? Then again, if she utters it and it’s tomorrow at 2:34 PM, you won’t be of very much use to anybody._ “Very kind! Very kind, no, but no thank you. What if _I_ ask you to bring Martin Blackwood back?”

A pause. “Why should I?”

_Because he’s my friend. Because I trust him. Because I need him. Because if he doesn’t come back, I don’t know what the hell is going to happen, but I know it won’t be anything good. I know it’ll mean the end of … me. As me._

“What did Elias tell you?”

“He asked me if I _really_ wanted to cause the end of the world. I presumed he was talking about the Extinction.” Amara paused, pressing one finger against her cheek. “Is Martin Blackwood really meant to save the world? I didn’t exactly talk to him for long, but he seemed a bit … not to be _rude,_ but oafish.”

“You only spoke to him when he thought he was going to be killed by you. I’d give him a bit of mercy.”

“I’m an _agent_ of mercy, Archivist, but some people face their deaths with a touch more dignity. Regardless. Is what Elias told me true?”

_I don’t know. I don’t know how they plan to stop the Extinction, I don’t know if Lukas is telling the truth, I don’t know if it’s all a big conspiracy. I don’t know._

“Yes,” Jon lied, and she pressed a finger to her cheek.

“The Web seemed to think otherwise, but then again, it isn’t as if I particularly like either of you.” Her gaze turned hard. “No offense, love.”

Jon was quickly starting to put together a mental picture of Amara Monti as an agent of the End. Someone who seemed warm and soft and welcoming, but was nothing more than vicious and cold underneath. How many deaths seemed pleasant at the offset, only to realize that death was inevitably permanent and heartless? “No offense taken,” he nevertheless replied. “What did – what did the Web _say_ to you? I may not be as all-reaching as Elias, but I do know some things.”

Amara seemed to consider it. “You see,” she explained after a moment’s pause. “I don’t know if I believe either of you. For all I know, _any_ action I take regarding Martin Blackwood could either save or end the world. So, why should I tell you about the motivations of other agents? I just don’t see what _I_ get out of it.”

He had _not_ gotten this far only to be stopped by a selfish agent of the End. He was _not_ going to let Martin Blackwood die for good because the only person who knew _anything_ about what was going on was so gigantically untrustworthy that a personification of death wouldn’t trust him.

There was another option. Jon didn’t particularly like it, because … well. More than likely, it would directly precede his death. But, _god,_ he was going to be stopped by some lazy _Avatar?_

Anger rushed through Jon, and he took a step forward. The light up above began to rattle in its holder. “ _Tell_ me what she told you,” he announced in a voice a few shades darker than usual. “ _Amara. Tell me.”_

As he spoke, a different sort of dread overtook him. This was not the dread that made him want to give up entirely, made him want to lay down and wait for the End that had to come. This was the sort of dread that made him positive he was going to die, that he ought to get down on his knees and beg now for it to be quick and painless. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want to die.

Nevertheless, he pressed on. Amara stared up at him. He saw her teeth start to dig into her bottom lip. “ _Tell me.”_

His vision was starting to go. Jon grunted in effort and pushed harder, _press_ harder, before Amara murmured to him in a soft voice, a kind nurse at a bedside: “You will not survive this, dear, so I would stop now.”

He realized he had grasped onto the wall to maintain his footing, and his knees were starting to buckle. No, Jon considered, perhaps she was right. He dropped the compulsion. “I’ll tell you in exchange for something, then. Doing things out of the kindness of my heart – “ Amara flashed a smile at him, a devious smile shared between a group of women before they decided to traverse to another club at three in the morning instead of going home, “Not really in my purview, is it?”

“What do you want?” Jon was surprised at how weak his voice sounded. “Anything.” It was hoarse.

“I want to tell you how you’ll die. Then you can take my statement, as you like. You’ve already got your recorder on you. Prepared.”

Dazed, Jon looked down at his arm. A recorder was clutched underneath it. When had that gotten there? Why was it _recording?_ He looked back up at her. “And that’ll set it in stone? How I die?” Jon asked blearily, to which Amara nodded with smug satisfaction.

It was a small price. “I do so like watching people when they find out.”

He had come this far, and given away so much of himself, that Jon could see no reason why not to. Still exhausted and leaning against the wall, Jon nodded to the woman.

She approached him. One painted hand reached out and took his forearm, before slowly sliding up. She pushed his jumper sleeve up as she did so. The entire arm completely went numb, and Jon let out a choked noise of surprise as he felt it. Goosebumps erupted all over his body. She leaned up, up, until her lips were about an inch or so from his ear. Jon closed his eyes as he waited to hear how he was going to die.

“Cold,” Amara intoned, and a frigid chill ran up Jon’s spine.


	11. Amara Monti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Elder/Infirm death, "Angel of Mercy"-esque behavior

_Statement begins, then? Ah, dear, you’re so pale. Sit down, won’t you? You need to take a few breaths._

_As Entities go, I do think the End is given a frankly obnoxious amount of focus. Shouldn’t be scary, is it? If anything, the End is just that – the end of all other fears. People really ought to be more grateful for it._

_I was born in some suburbs just outside of London. My mother was always dead – died in childbirth, I presume, an accident that nobody could really predict. My father worked constantly, but he did attempt to look out for my welfare. Tried to make sure that I was out of the flat. I did football, I went to tutoring, I volunteered. Picture perfect middle-class, I think._

_I went to lots of places. I volunteered for a bit at the hospital he worked at, but he was a pediatrician and I never really enjoyed being around children. Shelters for the homeless. Animal rescues. Eugh. Didn’t really suit me. I never really took to it as much as I took to the retirement home, though._

_It wasn’t so much the conversation that I enjoyed, or the schedule, or anything like that. No, the moment where I realized I really enjoyed it was when Florence died._

_Florence, you see, was quite lively for her old age. It was her eyesight that had started to go, and her hips gave her trouble, so she decided it was about time to move into a home. Otherwise, her mind was as sharp as one could expect. She wore obnoxiously loud colors, she spoke in a volume louder than I would have liked, and she cheated viciously at pinochle._

_She always wore this garish lipstick, you see, and whenever it was someone’s birthday, she’d come in with a handmade knitted something-or-other, give them a kiss on the cheek, and congratulated them for confusing the reaper another year._

_As a volunteer, I didn’t really do anything more than keep them company. Florence never seemed to need much. She made company for herself. I watched her from a distance, though. Her health never seemed to deteriorate, even as she reached ninety._

_Then, one day, when I was sixteen, Florence died._

_I didn’t know, at first. They don’t exactly make a public announcement about it. I just saw a bunch of orderlies shuffling in and out of the room, and then I was discreetly told to make sure the residents kept away from her room. Died in her sleep, I was told, an aneurysm, quite a shock to all._

_I watched with fascination._

_The orderlies were in charge of her death. They didn’t seem surprised at all, but rather, dealt with it as if Florence was nothing more than a package to be delivered from point A to point B. I knew the death was natural, and yet, I couldn’t help but feel like they were somehow responsible for it. That they had decided, in some covert little room, that it was time for Florence to go and they were just cleaning up the mess._

_The amount of power there was thrilling. I stayed there for three more years, as they gave me duties that I technically wasn’t allowed to have as a volunteer. I watched people die, but in truth, I preferred when people thought they were alone. That’s when you see how really scared they are._

_Of course, that was precisely the problem. After a few more years of it, the thrill just wasn’t there. When you get a certain age, you see, most tend to stop being scared. Whether they found comfort in religion or just the promise of a nice rest, most of the elderly that died in that nursing home were unafraid. It was so boring, so. I quit!_

_I ghosted back over to my father’s hospital and began to volunteer in other departments. That was much more my style, you see. Hospitals are a place where people got fixed up, but I noticed a consistent undercurrent of fear there. People went to the hospital because they were frightened of death. And oh, I_ did _like that very much._

_Sometimes, I delayed families coming in to see their loved ones for the last time. Tell them a wrong room here, give them awful directions there. I much preferred people to die alone. They could feel it that way._

_As an aside, I think that’s why me and the Extinction wouldn’t get along very much. There’s misery in company. All of us dying together? Christ, it sounds trite._

_I enjoyed it very much. There was one patient that saw me in their dreams right before they died. They were near the end for ages, constantly in and out of delusional states. I came into their room once, and they started screaming about how I was an angel of death come to take them. Isn’t that sweet of them? They dreamt about me._

_I found the book when I was on break, once. The hospital had a little community library tucked into one of the waiting rooms. Leave a book, take a book, so people could have something to distract themselves while their lived ones convalesced. I glanced through it out of curiosity, and saw_ Memento Mori.

_Honestly, I thought it was somebody’s idea of a joke. Putting a book entitled ‘Remember to Die’ in a hospital? I wanted to meet them. They sounded awfully funny._

_But, I picked it up, and I felt my heart stop. It hasn’t started beating since._

_I always thought the End would be more … dramatic, than that. Sometimes I feel a bit cheated out of the entire business, if you want the truth. I was so looking forward to my own._

_I started to flip through the book and saw names and dates. Everyone’s names and dates, actually, including my own – which, as you might expect, read that exact day. At first, I didn’t think anything of it._

_Yes, I was a bit shocked at first that I no longer felt my heartbeat, but you’d be surprised at how quickly you got used to things. For the first few minutes, I waited for my body to give out, and then it didn’t. Then I figured it was probably fine._

_I kept the book with me and got off break, returning to my patient. Jenny. Jenny had been a smoker. Awful habit, I love it. Her lungs were giving out on her, but everyone expected her to make a full recovery. Out of curiosity, I looked her up in the book, and found that her date was listed the same date as mine. That very day._

_I went up to see her and she was anxious in the bed. I asked her, ‘what’s the matter, dear heart?’ and she said that she was going to die that day. I laughed at her and said that nobody but the Lord knows that. But Jenny was insistent. She said she could feel it. She said she could hear ticking, and knew that it was running out._

_And, would you imagine, Jenny kept her word. She died at 11:58 PM._

_Of course, I didn’t trust the book right away on that. It took seven more patients before I began to finally believe that the book knew something about it. And then, honestly, it became a bit of a game. I’d look hungrily over the list of patients admitted for that day and then look for the names in_ Memento Mori. _After a while, I took to watching them die myself. People began not to ignore me when they were near death – or, if I were extremely lucky, they’d beg me to make it stop. I said that the end was natural, everyone did it, and not a soul in the world could stop it. They’d always go pale._

_I wish the book was a little more specific as to time, though, you know. 24 hours is an awfully long window to manage, and it was hardly as if I could wait around all day for it. I’d tell people straight-out that they were going to die that day, and when would they like me to pencil them in? Some laughed. Some cried. I thought it was a funny joke._

_Eventually, I took to taking matters into my own hands. A woman can hardly be expected to wait until 11:56 PM to watch a man die._

_My first was an elderly man. Reginald. Ancient fellow, I think he served in one of the world wars? He had had all of his teeth extracted, and it resulted in a nasty infection of the jaw. He didn’t talk. Didn’t say much, anyway, just stared right up at the ceiling most of the time. He had to be near-on ninety. Nobody thought he was going to make it, and_ Memento Mori _agreed._

_I was a bit put off, frankly, because I had a date later that night. Lovely chap named Noah. Such lovely eyes. But, I thought Reginald might be one of those folks who cried at the end, so I wanted to stick around._

_And then I thought – well, if the man’s going to die anyway …_

_Used a pillow. Cliché, isn’t it? Every angel of mercy uses that. But I wanted to touch up my makeup before I left, and it was right there._

_He struggled! Bless me, did he struggle quite hard for a man that age! It didn’t last long, then. And, as he finally started to relax, I was filled with a sense of … it’s hard to describe, really. It was as if someone had put a hand on my shoulder and told me that I had done a_ very _good job indeed._

_So, I kept on doing it. Nobody really questioned it, because the people I went after had death dates the day. Point is, their health wasn’t great._

_It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize I could alter_ Memento Mori. _I mean, you don’t really look at an old book and think ‘my god, it’s time for some vandalism’, now do you? No, you seem the bookish sort. I imagine you wouldn’t._

 _I had realized around that time that I had gotten more … hm, capable, I guess? I could sense people’s death dates more accurately. Popped out to me as easily as their hair or eye color. So, really, I had sort of taken_ Memento Mori _for granted._

_I decided to play with it a bit. I wanted to see if I could kill someone before their death date. I thought about using someone at the hospital, but Christ, what if they suspected me? I didn’t want to lose my position, not when I liked it so much. I went to Noah for advice._

_You see, Noah was very keen on not-dying, and he had a very specific death date. I showed him_ Memento Mori _to confirm it, and poor thing seemed destined to die young. So, you can imagine that he was quite pleased to help me to whatever research I needed._

_I knew he had a future brother-in-law named Daniel. Young, fit thing. I decided he would be a good candidate for the first test, and told Noah that I needed him to bring Daniel to me, alone, so I could see. I had checked Daniel’s death date – not for another fifty or sixty years yet._

_I was so sloppy back then with the murders! Really, I just hit him over the head with_ Memento Mori _and his heart stopped on contact. I’ve gotten much more sophisticated with it now, you know. Don’t even have to touch anyone. It’s embarrassing how novice I was at the entire thing._

_Not that I’d be comfortable calling it a murder, because Daniel didn’t die. Not really. He had a corpse, of course, one I quickly got rid of, but part of him was left. I guess, if you were the fanciful type, you’d call it a ghost. All he did was cry at his own gravesite, though. Bit useless._

_Noah was livid about it, of course. Demanded that I brought him back. I said I didn’t precisely know how, if I even could, and he begged me to figure it out for him. He said he’d trade his life for Daniel’s in a second, if needed. I think that was where I got the idea, frankly._

_Do you know most people die during the holidays? It took a lot of trial-and-error, but thankfully, I was covert enough about the entire thing, though nervous as you would ever believe. With the little spike in deaths we get naturally, nobody suspected. Then again, nobody paid me much mind. I’d been there so long._

_I found out a few things. One, I could change deathdates in the book. Two, I could make people stick around as little ghostie-ghouls if I wasn’t careful. And three, I could exchange any life I wanted for another life._

_You see, the End isn’t so fussed about identity. So long as the balance is kept – that is, I don’t try to rip someone out of their clutches without giving them someone else – they don’t really care who it is. I’ve got to fill every seat on the River Styx, but I don’t check tickets, if that makes sense._

_After I’d done a few experiments, I told Noah that we could bring Daniel back. I made him do it himself. Someone had to teach the man about responsibility some time. If you go get your future brother-in-law killed, you have to clean up your mess. I said that it was the ultimate show of love for his sister, and that was that._

_Poor dear. I would’ve changed his death date, but there was nothing to be done about it. We travelled together for a bit. It was lovely. And I do so like watching youth face the End._

_It was only a little while after that where this entire business started._

_Anyway, our friend the Web came to me fairly soon after. Explained to me that they’d been watching the Institute, and that they had reason to believe that Martin Blackwood would cause the Extinction to come into the world._

_I wasn’t sure whether to trust them or not. The Web is hard to sense, you know. Avatars – true Avatars, dear heart, not novices, sorry – death dates tend to be all askew as it stands._

_They told me that they’d been watching Elias Bouchard’s movements in prison, and Peter Lukas’ movements in the Institute, and believed that there was some sort of game going on. The outcome of the game would decide the outcome of the world. Now, Bouchard’s got multiple death dates and Lukas isn’t in my book at all, so I knew I absolutely couldn’t trust them a whit._

_But, could I trust the Web enough?_

_All I had to do, though, was kill Martin Blackwood. I don’t believe the Web knew about_ Memento Mori, _or the abilities it gave me, so I figured … well. If it all turns out topsy-turvy for me, then I’d just kill someone else and bring him back. It’s not like it’s difficult._

_Of course I can’t trust Elias on that matter. But I do believe I like you, Archivist. You’re like me. Decided to take things into your own hands, seek power that was withheld from you. If you believe Martin Blackwood’s death would result in the Extinction coming about, then I will believe you on that._

_Besides. Not like it would be exactly hard to kill him again. It was quite fun the first time. Though there is the little issue of having to kill someone to bring him back … hm. I think … oh, yes, I know_ just _the person. But you are going to have to prove something to me, is that alright?_

_Is that alright, Archivist?_

_Why are you staring at me like that, dear heart?_

_Oh, I see. Statement ends. There you are._

Jon blinked his world back into focus. His entire body flinched and then relaxed against the wall. The entire time of the statement, he’d been swamped with the feeling of impending death, like she was liable to reach forward at any moment with those sharp nails of hers and slice open his body. It started to abate as she stopped, and Jon closed his eyes shut tight to clear his throat.

“Are you alright, dearie?”

“Fine,” Jon whispered hoarsely. “Just fine. I, um – “ He paused. “Yes. Would like you to bring Martin back. What have I got to prove to you?”

Amara considered Jon for a moment. He hated how caring it seemed, with wide brown eyes, like she was making sure she was okay. “Well, I have to know you’re serious about this. And – like I said – you seem a bit of a novice at the Avatar thing.”

“Yes,” Jon grunted, pulling his sleeves low over his hands. _Cold. Cold cold cold._ “You said. What is it?”

“I want _you_ to kill the sacrifice. That’ll prove to me that you are actually wanting to bring him back.”

_What?_

Somehow, that made Jon hesitate, even if he knew the answer already. This was different. They had been meaning to kill Elias Bouchard in cold blood, certain, but he’d been an _accomplice_ at that – nothing more. This was … this could be an innocent. Someone’s nan. A _child._

But what was the alternative, exactly? This was the only way that Jon knew how to solve something like this. And … Jon did believe Martin was instrumental in preventing the Extinction.

Jon was of the opinion ‘the ends justify the means’ was only exclusively used by mustache-twirling supervillains, but maybe … maybe it could fit, here.

He looked up at her, mouth agape. He wished he would stop feeling frigid. That was the worst part of this, Jon considered. Goosebumps had broken out over his arms and Jon couldn’t stop _shivering._ He wondered if he would ever be able to feel cold without feeling like he wasn’t going to die again.

“Okay.” His voice was hoarse, and he was staring directly at the floor. _Just get the name. Just get the name, and then you can figure out how you’re going to live with yourself later._

 _Jon,_ a different voice sounded altogether, _you wouldn’t kill someone for me, would you? I wouldn’t want that. I wouldn’t want you to have to do that. Please don’t do this._

Jon wondered if Martin was watching him right then, selling his morality out to yet another Avatar of yet another Entity. Maybe it actually _was_ Martin in his head, infecting it from another plane of existence. He felt … tired. He felt like there were no other options.

If Martin was watching, Jon couldn’t tell.

“Who’ve I got to kill?”

Amara laughed to herself. “So _eager!_ It’s a little addicting, isn’t it?”

“I – I wouldn’t know. I’ve never – “

“Oh, you will. Don’t you worry. I’ve got just the person in mind. They’re a bit of a nutter, I’ll be glad to see them gone.” Amara sighed and put her hands on her hips. “It’s just going to be a dreadful bother, the Extinction, isn’t it? If it actually comes.”

A dreadful bother, indeed. Jon nodded, arms curling around himself and rubbing against his forearms in an attempt to warm himself up. _Come on, everything you’ve done, murder is suddenly where you’re crossing the line?_ “Oh, _sweetheart,_ you look so pale. Don’t worry. Who I want to have you kill – they’re an Avatar, themselves! So not _really_ human.”

Somehow, that made things better.

And so much worse.

The last time Jon had faced up against an Avatar … well, there were plenty of times, but they universally went poorly. Jon couldn’t tell anyone. He couldn’t put anyone at risk. Morally, perhaps he was in the clear, but he just couldn’t tell anyone of his plan.

Still, Jon forced himself to be grateful. She could’ve given him an innocent. 

“Of – of course I will. Thank you so much, Amara, I can’t properly express –"

Amara was leaning forward to grasp his hand again. It was his good hand, the one that hadn’t been mottled with finger-shaped burn scars. Jon’s hand immediately went numb.

“Fredrik Larsen.” The hand squeezed. The fingers were digging into his wrist and palm, and Jon could _feel_ them breaking skin, but … there was no pain. Why wasn’t there any pain? “A friend of the Dark. I wouldn’t check your statements for him, dearie, anybody who would’ve come asking about him is long gone. But you’ll find him at Bishops Avenue in Hampstead. Beyond that, I do want you to flex your abilities a bit.” A beat. The nails dug in further. Jon felt wet. “Remember, dear heart, I’m not being _mean_ when I ask you to take care of him – I’m only testing your resolve.”

That … wasn’t reassuring. Jon fell mute as Amara released his hand, turning around and going back down the hallway. A red raincoat was tugged around her. Jon watched her back. Although the dreadful feeling passed, Jon still stood, because he was …

Scared.

Christ. He wished he could just stop feeling scared all the time. What was Amara sending him into? Why did she seem sickly joyful over the hell Jon was likely to encounter?

Jon heard footsteps come down the opposite end of the hallway, and then a manicured hand on his shoulder. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. “ _Excellent_ work, Jon,” Elias said, sounding enthused. _More than one deathdate? What are you, Elias, really?_ “Really excellent. I couldn’t have done it better for myself.”

“What did you say?” Daisy asked immediately, extricating herself from the office with Basira close behind. She stood by Jon’s other shoulder. Three pairs of eyes were on him. “We couldn’t hear anything. Christ, Jon, you’re so pale.”

Jon bobbed his head a few times. Another monster of the Entities passing themselves off as a decent person. _How long before you’re like that,_ Jon asked himself, _so ignorant and uncaring as to your own monstrosities?_ He looked down at the hand that Amara had grasped. The normally oak-colored skin was tinged a faint pink, and … tapping his hand against his chest, Jon realized that he _definitely_ couldn’t feel everything he once had. His fingers shook uncontrollably on that hand, though mild.

 _Can’t tell them what I’ve got to do. Can’t. Can’t, they’ll want to get involved, and then I can’t guarantee their safety. I’m going on my own._ Jon looked up and met eyes with Elias. _Basira told me she had a gun in the breakroom. I’ll look up where I’m going, precisely, on my mobile after I go._

Jon looked up to meet Elias’ eyes. There was no guessing in his eyes. He knew what had happened. What Amara had offered to Jon. And he was _god damn fucking delighted_ over it.

“She just gave me her statement,” he muttered hoarsely as he stared into his boss’ eyes, “And said she trusted me, and that … Martin will be returned in a few days.”

_Martin, if you’re listening to me – if you’re really in my head, or if you’re just watching, or wherever you are – I’m so sorry for what I’m meant to do._

The inside of his head was silent. Anger, Jon presumed. Martin was angry at him. That was fair. Jon stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked around at the others. “Guess there’s nothing left to do but wait,” he announced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, everyone!  
> Sometimes I have details that I feel so strongly about in a character that I just can't work in to the story without making the tension bubble pop. So I think at the end of the chapter is an appropriate place to mention - Monti being pretty into Despicable Me-Minions.   
> Thank you all to everyone who's read/kudos'ed/left comments, and see you next week!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Ghosts

Jon trudged along the wide sidewalks of Bishops Avenue. Basira’s gun was jostling around in his bag in a frankly unnerving way, but every one of Jon’s attempts to secure it met in failure. He just hoped that he would remember how to work the thing when the time came. He’d never shot a gun before in his life.

As per the brief Google session on the way over, Bishops Avenue was among the wealthiest streets in the world. Gigantic mansions greeted him on both sides. Granted, Jon could only see from the second story up, because they were inevitably shielded by large brick, ivy-covered fences and twisted ironwork gates. Jon was of the opinion that he was probably the shabbiest person to ever walk down this street, and couldn’t imagine _what_ an Avatar of the Dark was conducting in a place like this.

Scrolling further down the Wikipedia page, Jon uncovered that Bishops Avenue had originally gained prominence for having elaborate, lavish mansions … though, in recent times, Jon noted that it was more famous for most of the mansions being abandoned and left to rot. Great fun for urban explorers and ghosthunters alike, Jon found himself greeted by tale after tale of supposed phantasms that roamed the properties.

 _Good,_ Jon thought to himself weakly, _my favorite. Ghost stories._

There was the smaller issue of finding the correct mansion where Mr. Fredrik Larsen had maintained his residence. _Why he was there_ pulled at the back of his mind, but not as much as _which one which one which one_. Abandoned mansions, albeit dark, didn’t quite seem like the place for devotees of Mr. Pitch. Still, less important. Probably best he didn’t know. The more he knew, the worse he would feel when he eventually had to …

Jon’s determination faltered. _No,_ he told himself stubbornly, _it’s for Martin. You’ve left enough people to die. You can kill an Avatar for him._

In the quiet evening, Jon paused by one of the fences. He let his palm rest against the scratchy brick and shut his eyes. Cool air filled his lungs, expanding inside him, and Jon willed his mind to focus. He was faced with the door in his mind, of a flood pressing up against it, and all Jon asked for was a drop of water. A very, very _specific_ drop of water.

And, just like always, Jon felt the door _creak_ with the effort. It would one day break open, drowning him, but not today. Today, he would get the information he wanted, because the Eye knew that Jon was already in its clutches. This would only speed the process along.

When he opened his eyes, one of the mansions was glowing.

A pale yellow light seemed to shine not only from inside the windows but inside the walls themselves. It dimly reminded Jon of his childhood bedroom – though not struck with any particular fear of the dark, he nevertheless enjoyed the cozy warmth given off by his robot-themed nightstand lamp. The lightbulb gleamed within the thin lampshade, and Jon had found that he could make shadow puppets against the wall if he stuck his hand inside.

No rabbits or dogs or butterflies were projected from the mansion up ahead, though. Jon didn’t think he’d be faced with anything quite so nice. Nevertheless, Jon quickly muttered a thanks to the Eye and crossed the street.

Next was the issue of the fence. Scaling the gate itself was out. Limited handholds, and Jon had a particularly vivid mental image of his thin body getting impaled on the spikes up above like a kebab. _Good!_ He turned towards the ivy-covered brick fence, standing at least ten feet tall, and figured that he had little other option.

He tightened his bag around his neck, put his fingers on the thick foliage, and pulled himself up.

Slow going. And not particularly _enjoyable._ Jon figured he was the lone person to witness the last fall of his dignity, and didn’t feel inclined to suppress any of the pained grunts or curses (both Hindi and English, because this fence was going to _feel_ his frustration, damn it) that left him. Jon hadn’t been particularly strong even before all this, but the idea of slinking back to the Institute because of a _fence_ was ridiculous. He was not going to let Martin die because of a _fence._

After some ten minutes, Jon made it. He straddled the fence carefully and brushed off the front of his shirt with some smug self-accomplishment. Regular cat burglar, he was. He looked around to make certain he hadn’t been spotted. The sensation of being watched followed him near-on constantly, so he could hardly rely on his Beholder abilities to make sure that he was well and truly alone.

But no alarms. No sirens. No neighbors running into the street screaming about the state of the UK. Jon nodded to himself, swung his legs around the other side of the fence, and tried to climb down.

Tried.

Going down was much harder than going up, as it happened. His foot couldn’t find a proper hold and Jon desperately dangled by his thin forearms for a few seconds before falling entirely. He slammed into the overgrown lawn with a painful _thump._ There was a sharp jab of pain in his ribs as he landed on his bag, the gun digging into his ribcage. Groaning, Jon rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky. Cloudy London night greeted him coldly. Jon’s breath puffed up into the air as he pulled himself together. _Stupid,_ Jon thought to himself, _that was stupid._

Right, he was definitely going to need the cane tomorrow. And he would definitely need his heating pad and some pain pills tonight. His leg twinged awfully and Jon grunted, pressing his fingers down on the skin there.

No severe damage, no, and he supposed he ought to be very careful that he hadn’t inadvertently discharged the gun into his body. Unlikely, but it _would_ happen to him. He pushed himself up to stand on wobbly legs, balancing himself using the fence, as he saw the mansion.

Spooky, indeed. It was painted a pale blue and several ornate columns at the front. The large, spacious lawn had long since gone overgrown – the garden itself even worse. One of the windows was broken, causing one of the shutters to flap in the icy night chill as wind whistled in and out. The light that had guided him so helpfully to this very location dimmed and then went out entirely.

Scared, scared, scared, he was so sick and _tired_ of being scared. A haunted-looking house was one of the least objectively dangerous places he had been to recently. And yet, as the front stairs creaked under his weight, Jon winced.

What an agent of the Dark would be doing here, Jon didn’t know. It _was_ dark, but no more than any other darkened home. He put his hand on the doorknob and pushed in, finding that to nobody’s surprise, it was unlocked. The lock itself had been broken perhaps months ago.

Jon wasn’t educated in that area enough to know whether the floors were really polished marble or a stunning facsimile – though, given the cost of the place, Jon wouldn’t be surprised if it was genuine. A large marble staircase swept into a second story, and several corridors jutted out in similarly expensive directions. Dust settled on everything, including the expensive-looking knick-knacks still resting forgotten on tables. A chandelier was high above his head, reflecting off the incoming moonlight.

No warmer in here. Jon wasn’t surprised. He remembered Amara Monti’s words – _you’re going to die cold, Jon –_ and thought that he might’ve perhaps preferred a time and date, after all. A time and date only occurred once. Being cold seemed a constant state in winter.

Right, Jon supposed. It was time to search. He picked a corridor at random and decided to walk. The urge to call out Fredrik Larsen’s name gripped him, but he thought that it _really_ wasn’t a very good idea to call out the name of the man he was planning on murdering. He would have to be subtle.

Jon caught movement out of the corner of his eye and let out a strangled half-gasp.

“Oh, the fucking _mirror,”_ Jon hissed out from his teeth, turning around to face the dust-covered mirror. In the dark, Jon could barely see his reflection. He looked rather like a ghost himself, with the bags under his eyes and haunted appearance. _If this place doesn’t have a ghost,_ Jon thought to himself whimsically, _it does now._

From somewhere to his left, Jon heard a creak. No, a creak was an isolated incident, this was a series of creaks, punctuated by the sound of a small impact, which could only mean …

Footsteps.

Jon took a deep breath, staring down at the darkened corridor. Footsteps. He opened up his messenger bag and fumbled around for Basira’s gun in his bag, before bringing it into his hands.

 _God, some people walk around with these to feel safe. I’m still terrified._ Jon gripped the cold metal in his hand as he continued down the hallway. The footsteps soon stopped but Jon nevertheless followed their sound. The hallway soon opened up to an expectedly lavish sitting room, with plush, elaborate sofas and crystal bowls. Hm. Wars had probably been fought over the large rug spanning the entire length of the room.

People always remarked that Jon seemed rather posh, even when his upbringing had been somewhat skint. He supposed it was the Oxford shining through. Though Jon had once imagined of a life in academia, _that_ certainly didn’t correlate to a life of luxury. Jon was always most comfortable in a small flat with many bookshelves and a cup of tea.

He stepped further, investigating behind the sofa – and then, when a strange impulse took him, underneath it. Just dust bunnies. Jon could hardly hear his own footsteps on the rug, which meant that Mr. Larsen had likely moved on. Jon wandered over to the large windows that spanned from his waist to the ceiling and stared outside. Unlikely that he had escaped through the window, but Jon was getting vivid mental images of a face suddenly appearing at the glass pane. Better to check.

A garden in the back. No, Jon amended, he would rather like a garden in his life at some point, too. His grandmother had been fond of it. The woman was stern and austere (not cruelly so, Jon always rectified), but he had always seen her grow soft in regard to her garden. Jon, being squirmy, squirrelly, and quarrelsome, had never been allowed to assist.

She would likely be horrified by the overgrown mess outside. Jon distractedly watched a rabbit chew on some weeds, allowing himself to forget the weight of the metal in his hands.

A chill, worse than the cold he was already experiencing, swept through him. Jon suppressed a shudder as the window abruptly _rattled_ in its frame. The glass jostled and groaned at the sudden movement, leading Jon to jump back. His arse hit the arm of the chair, nearly topping himself backward.

“ _Wind,”_ Jon hissed to himself, keeping his jaw set. “It’s just the wind.” The reasoning rung hollow to his ears. Many windows faced that direction, and they didn’t so much as flinch. But he had to keep moving, had to keep _searching._ This was for Martin, he told himself, and Martin’s life was rather literally on the line.

He kept his head down and continued from the living room. His head jerked from side to side, as if he would see someone out of the corner of his eyes. Jon kept his shoulders hunched over to protect himself, continuing through the darkened hallway. With no rug to protect his feet, Jon could hear his own footsteps reverberating in his ears. It seemed unbearably loud. Probably broadcasting his exact location to whatever maniac -- _You’re fine,_ Jon told his racing heart, _you’re fine,_ Jon told the hairs on the back of his neck, _you’re fine,_ Jon told his twisted stomach.

The hallway stretched out before him, seemingly ages, before he came to an old wooden door. _Erik Larsen, you better be bloody in here,_ he told himself. His breathing was coming in shorter pants, now. While Jon would never _regret_ his decision to not bring the others, he wished he weren’t _alone._ He _hated_ being alone.

He put his hand on the door and pushed it open, presenting a large, ornate dining room that looked like it was rather untouched. An artfully carved wooden dining table stretched out the length of it, with several cushioned wooden chairs dotted every few feet. The tablecloth was burgundy and dragged along the smooth flooring. More of interest to Jon was the small bar in the corner, still revealing some dusty glass bottles of liquor. _Could do with a drink,_ Jon thought to himself dimly, _maybe ten._ On the side of the wall directly opposite him was an open china cabinet, revealing the dusty dinnerware within. And –

Propelled by phantasmal force, a plate sailed through the air and towards his head. Jon yelped and ducked to the ground, grabbing at his knees. He scrambled away from the unknown force. The plate was followed by a glass – a few bits of silverware – a serving platter, that clattered against the wallpaper like a drum before falling to the floor.

Jon kept his head ducked, even as he felt porcelain rain down on his hair and the back of his neck. He didn’t think he could reasonably stand without having a heart attack, the organ skipping a few beats as Jon shook on the ground. _Perfectly reasonable explanation,_ Jon told himself as if he were reading it from a book, but he _knew_ there wasn’t. He just didn’t know what it _was._ Could an Avatar of the Dark do something like _this?_ What the hell was _this?_

With shaking knees, Jon stood again. The gun was held loosely in one hand as he supported himself on the wall with the other. _You have to keep going. It’s for Martin._

Though, some allowances could be made. “F-Fredrik,” Jon hissed out in a shaky breath, finding his voice again as he pushed his way through the dining room. “ _Fredrik Larsen, show your goddamn face!”_ He didn’t know what abilities the Dark had granted its acolytes, but this was _absurd._

The anger, at least, gave him some strength to continue onward. Perhaps splashing his face with some cold water would continue to give him some strength, or at least quell the shaking in his limbs. It was strange to think that the utilities were probably still being paid on this place. He exited the dining room and to the corridor, searching for a kitchen or a bathroom. “Larsen!” Jon continued to call out, no longer _caring_ about the element of surprise, just get him out of this _fucking_ mansion.

There. A bathroom. Jon stepped onto cool tile and reached for the crystal sink handle, letting the water splash onto the sink. Jon kept the bathroom door open to the hallway. The last thing he wanted was to feel trapped in this small half-bath. He let the water run until steam started to rise from the warmth.

He put the gun back into his bag and pushed his glasses up. Filling his hands up with mercifully hot water, Jon splashed it into his face a few times. The water quickly cooled on his face, leaving him frigid again, but it was a welcome momentary distraction. He heaved his shoulders and took a large breath, scrubbing the liquid away with his sleeve.

When he looked up at the mirror above the sink, Jon saw that the heat had fogged it up considerably. _Good,_ he thought to himself with something approaching hysterical whimsy, _Don’t want to look at myself, anyway._

And then Jon saw movement.

He couldn’t make it out exactly until he put his glasses back on, but yes. There was a streak on the mirror, slow and purposeful. And then a curve. And then …

Definite letters. Jon watched in horror as whole words started to form in direct capital letters.

  1. E. T. O. U. T.



After the last T was formed, the entire mirror was wiped off with one solid brush. The damage to Jon had already been done, however, even if he was faced with the horror of his own reflection.

Jon stumbled back from the mirror until his shaking legs hit a wall, to which he immediately slid down onto the floor. One knee pressed up to his chest while his bad knee remained straight out. Body shuddering, Jon hid his head against his knee.

The gasps returned to him, now. His chest rose and fell in jagged, painful heaves. Jon could no longer tell whether he was aching for air or whether he was sobbing, but his mouth was open in a desperate attempt to calm himself. “P-please,” Jon shuddered out, voice painfully pleading. “I just. I just want to. To save my friend.”

 _How funny it is,_ Jon growled at himself, _the thing that finally breaks you is a ghost that seems to have taken from the stereotypical haunting playbook. GET OUT on a mirror, really. That’s what’s broken you. Pathetic._

His inner conscious, as it often did these days, took on a different tone. Martin’s comforting voice echoed in his ears.

_It’s fine, Jon. It’s okay. You’re doing what you can. Just take a pause, take a break, you’re going to be fine. Nothing’s hurting you._

Jon shuddered on the cold bathroom tile, hugging his knee close against him. “ _Leave me alone,”_ he pleaded with whatever was watching him. “Please. _Please,_ please, please, I’m not leaving, I _can’t_ leave, but I’m so – I’m so scared.”

In a way, he was now glad he came alone. Basira and Daisy didn’t need to know that they weren’t dealing with some hardened Avatar of a fear god. They were dealing with a desperate wreck of a man.

Jon wasn’t sure if he was directly pleading with the ghost or pleading with himself. Still, he half-sobbed, half-gasped against his body for some minutes before. A headache rapidly sprouted in his brain, and Jon’s throat felt raw. Eventually, though, Jon raised his head to see what fresh hell waited for him.

Nothing. No sound, no angry phantom, nothing at all. Jon sniffed and pressed his glasses back up his nose. Ghosts didn’t pay attention to begging, Jon knew, so he wondered why –

A door, just opposite the bathroom, unlocked with a loud ‘click’. It creaked open slowly, _slowly,_ yielding a series of steps leading down. A cellar, perhaps, or a basement. Either way, it was a clear invitation.

Jon didn’t know whether it was a threat or a favor.

No. Ghosts didn’t help people. Definitely a threat.

That was where he would find Mr. Fredrik Larsen, he presumed. Jon inhaled and pushed himself up on his legs shakily, one leg clearly wobbling worse than the other. Soon, Jon promised himself, the nightmare would be over. He just had to go … shoot a man in cold blood.

Swallowing, Jon looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were puffy. They’d started watering at some point, but otherwise he looked exhausted – terrified – half-feral with fright and desperation. Jon reached for the gun in his bag again and stepped outside of the bathroom, faced with the open cellar door. As expected, Jon thought to himself unhappily, the steps led down into darkness.

He couldn’t leave now, after he had gone through so much. And this was the only way of bringing Martin back to life. Jon had to. Jon _had_ to. He took one step down the stairs, listening to it creak. The creaks seemed to take on the Queen’s English, beating into Jon’s head, _have to, have to, have to, have to, have to._

It seemed like there were far too many steps to be natural, but that could have been Jon’s own fright distorting things for him. Perhaps he never wanted to reach the bottom. When he came to the end, however, he noticed that it wasn’t entirely dark after all.

The room was some sort of wine cellar. Large wooden boxes lined it on either side, filled with dimly reflective glass bottles. Jon’s shoes made a soft tapping noise on the cobblestone floor that seemed to echo throughout the entire cellar – _at least if this ends badly, you could probably get well drunk in here._ Between the wine box corridor was a simple table, a simple chair, and a simple bare hanging bare bulb. It didn’t give off much light, but it was enough for Jon to see that he wasn’t alone.

A man was sitting at the table. His shoulders were hunched forward, hands clasped together. The light didn’t seem to touch him the way it did everything else. His hair was pulled back from his face in a short, tight ponytail. Jon couldn’t see his eyes – a combination of thick brows and the slightly declined angle of his face kept them in shadow – but he could see the lower half of his face.

He was smiling.

There was nothing directly _wrong_ with his smile, no – he just appeared to be grinning as widely as he possibly could, from ear to ear. A shudder passed Jon’s spine as he recalled that most species smiled as a sign of aggression.

Unwillingly, Jon took another step in. Fredrik Larsen’s head tilted to the side. The smile tilted along with it. Jon did not take another step.

Jon took the gun and raised it, but he knew already that it was trembling so badly he wouldn’t be able to hit even a stationary target sitting six feet away. And he doubted that, despite how still the man was sitting, he would be able to get more than one shot off.

_It’s for Martin. It’s for Martin. That – that’s got to be a monster, even that’s not a human, look at him, **look at him.**_

Jon was looking with all of his eyes, but he couldn’t force himself to pull the trigger. Fredrik Larsen wasn’t _moving,_ just sitting there at the table, eyes hidden in shadow, grin pulled wide. And yet, somehow Jon was struck dumb with terror. Larsen looked like he had been waiting for him. Or _someone._

“This is for my friend,” Jon informed Larsen. Predictably, he didn’t respond. “I … I’m sorry,” except that he _wasn’t,_ how could he be, this was an Avatar of the Dark. Fredrik Larsen created as much fear as possible for his god. _Christ, he doesn’t even have to do anything, I’m scared enough just looking at him._

Some fears, he supposed, didn’t have to do a gigantic show and dance.

Some just had to sit there, and smile.

The first movement from the monster occurred when Jon turned off the safety of the gun. _Hold your breath. Right, in all the films they say to hold your breath before you shoot to better your aim._ He took another trembling step forward, trying to close the gap between them, as Fredrik pushed himself up from the table. The smile didn’t waver as he took a step forward, crossing below the bare bulb above.

When he did, the bulb flickered and went out with a _snap_. Jon heard the rapid movement of feet against stone. He let out a yelp of terror and pulled the trigger in the dark – not even a second later, so close that Jon wondered if it was an echo, he heard a second shot ring out.

There was a thump of something soft hitting the floor, and then silence. Jon heaved out a few breaths with ringing ears. It took him a few seconds to realize that someone was breathing behind him, and Jon let out another noise, _please no,_ before he heard a torchlight flick on.

“Jon. Jon, it’s Basira. Jesus,” Basira hissed. Jon’s shoulders were grasped and he was spun around to face her; in reaction, he dropped the gun. It clattered against the stone floor. “Hang on. There’s a switch over here.” He was let go as Basira stepped away – in a second, the overhead bulb flickered on again. “Jon, look at me. You’re fine.” It wasn’t said with any sort of extending kindness, not the ridiculous, irrational warmth Jon had come to associate with Martin – but it was said directly, giving him no room to flail, and Jon needed that more at the moment.

“How – how are you – “ Jon spluttered weakly. His shoulders were grasped again. Basira’s eye contact was severe and analytical, but nevertheless _confident._ Jon found himself relying on it. Basira knew what was going on. He could trust her. And Jon was no longer alone.

She took a deep breath. “I’ve been tailing you since you left the Archives.”

“ _What?”_

“Jon, you’re a shit liar.” Basira took a deep breath. “Daisy and I could tell that something was up when you talked with Amara. You were _terrified_ about something. Then we realized that you took my gun from the breakroom and decided that you were about to do something …” She trailed off, and Jon wondered if she was going to spare his feelings. “Stupid.” She wasn’t.

 _Shit._ He hadn’t even noticed that they’d been tailing him, but … Christ, he wasn’t trained in this sort of thing like they were. Jon shivered under Basira’s hands. His back was to the body behind him, and he couldn’t force himself to turn around. He couldn’t even force himself to process that Fredrik Larsen was dead. “How did you know to come in?”

Basira chewed the inside of her lip for a moment, as if considering. “The … lights in the house started to flicker,” she admitted softly. “Figured something was happening. And then – all the doors were locked and shut tight except for this one.”

Jon was certain he’d left the bathroom door open, and the dining room door, and the sitting room door.

He couldn’t let himself think about it.

Finally, he turned around and faced the body on the floor. Fredrik Larsen lay there. The blood pooling out of him wasn’t red, and morbidly enough, that granted Jon some comfort but - the smile still stuck on his face was quick enough to wipe it away. Cause of death was immediately obvious, given the way black blood was pooling out of the side of his neck. But … ?

“Who shot him?” Jon murmured, looking over his shoulder at his friend. “You, or me?”

Basira’s expression turned uncertain. “I wasn’t expecting the lights to go out. I think my shot went wide.”

“My hands were shaking so badly, I don’t think I could’ve hit a cruise liner.” Jon looked up from the body to see a newly made hole in the wall. He sucked his lips in. “Guess we … guess we won’t know.”

“Not going to lose any sleep over it, personally.” She bent down and took her gun, sounding unconcerned about the body on the ground. Jon was holding his breath, stepping away from the body on the ground. He wished he could feel so detached from killing a monster. Not going to fall to pieces over it, and Jon’s nightmares hadn’t been his own in a very long time, but he would never feel _alright_ about this. “Remind me to give Daisy her gun back. And don’t take my gun again.”

“Sorry,” Jon echoed in a soft mutter.

Basira took a deep breath and reached for Jon. Her hand settled between his shoulder blades as she guided him away. Jon’s bad leg was starting to tremble again, and the arm shifted to under his ribcage. Jon gratefully accepted her taking some of his weight. “Do you want to tell me why I might’ve just killed a thing for you?”

“That was the deal.” They started to slowly make their way up the stairs. It creaked loudly with every step they took. “If I killed this Dark Avatar, Fredrik Larsen … she would bring Martin back.” Jon took a deep breath. “She wanted to know that I was willing to … do something, that I was serious about wanting to bring him back.”

“Well. Guess you were.” A step groaned worryingly under both of their weight, and Basira quickly climbed the next. “So. Is he … is Martin alive, right now?”

 _That_ was a different consideration altogether, wasn’t it? They exited the cellar door together. Just as Basira said, Jon noticed that the other doors were shut except for the ones leading to their exit. “Maybe,” he murmured, before a different consideration came to him. “We. We don’t know where he’s buried, do we?”

“Daisy and I will look into Elias’ office. It’s, ah, it’s near two in the morning.” He’d been in there for much longer than he thought. “And I’m sure he kept a record of that sort of thing.”

A paper trail would certainly exist in Elias’ office. Jon thought about returning to the Archives, to help them search, but exhaustion swept over him. He was so tired, he just wanted to rest, it had been such a long night and he’d dealt with both Amara Monti and Fredrik Larsen in one day.

“You go home.” They were in the marble front room, now, and Jon looked at Basira questioningly. “I’m serious. Get some rest, Jon, and we’ll call you when we find it.”

“ _No.”_ Jon shook his head, stubborn. “If Martin’s awake, right now, we’ve got to –”

“What, do you want us to just start searching every graveyard in England? Jon, if you had told us beforehand, we could’ve prepared.” Basira opened the front door. Daisy was standing just on the other side, extending out Jon’s cane in one outstretched hand. And behind her … an open metal fence. _God, of course they managed to open it. Fell on your arse for nothing._ “You’ve got to trust us. Okay? No more running off on your own.”

Jon took his cane gratefully from Daisy and nodded his assent.

“The idea that you’ve got to _protect_ any one of us is stupid, Jon, at this point. The only thing you’re going to accomplish by running off on your own is getting yourself, or any one of us, killed.” Basira released Jon as he supported more of his own weight, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “You understand?”

“I know. I know, I know, I – “ Jon scrubbed a hand over his face and regarded the two at the same time. “I’m sorry. I am, I suppose I just … wasn’t sure what I was walking into. But I’ll put an end to that.” Basira looked at him in disbelief. “I promise.”

They all stood in silence, on the front stoop of the haunted house, before Daisy asked: “Jon, do you want a ride home?” She looked up at Basira after. “Explain in the car.”

No. No, Jon figured that a little bit of silence – a little bit of solitude – a little bit of time to sort out his thoughts – would be welcome. He looked up at the sky to find that it had started to snow. “Call me when you find out where he’s buried,” he muttered, stepping down the stoop. “And please, please, both of you – be careful, but _please find it quickly.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just have to say that the Wikipedia page for Bishops Avenue is a trip.


	13. Last Will and Testament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Spiders, some brief Annabelle-related body horror

After leaving Daisy and Basira, Jon trudged through the snow to head home. It had started falling more heavily during his walk, but Jon couldn’t find himself too bothered by it. The events of the day (of the day previous, he presumed) weighed too heavily on his mind. It occurred to him that the last time he had wandered through the streets at dark had ended up with him sitting across from Peter Lukas.

He tried not to think about that too much. Straight home. No nips in for coffee.

 _You ought to be celebrating,_ a voice in the back of his head told him, _Martin’s going to be brought back. Shouldn’t you be happy? You might have Martin in your life again by dawn._

And yet, he couldn’t make himself grasp that it was _real._ He just felt like he murdered a man for no reason, even if it hadn’t been technically _a man_ and he had _very_ good reason. Jon wouldn’t change anything he had done (except for, perhaps, not informing Daisy and Basira), but he still somehow felt like the villain.

As he passed the lit-up store fronts (not many, given that it was near on three in the morning), Jon found himself thinking of his deal made with Peter Lukas. Lukas hadn’t yet cashed that in – Jonathan Sims as his assistant. Lukas had fulfilled his portion of the contract, after all, but Lukas was nowhere in sight.

Perhaps Jon was just waiting out the clock. Or perhaps Lukas was waiting for a better time, or perhaps Lukas was waiting for Jon to get so cold that he wandered into whatever shop was still open out of desperation. And he _was_ cold, and he _did_ try to forget Monti’s warning about his death.

Or perhaps Lukas wanted to take him at his own flat, isolated as it was. So be it, then. Jon wanted to sleep. Jon _needed_ to sleep.

His best explanation was that Lukas, for whatever reason, _preferred_ Martin as his assistant and wouldn’t be taking Jon at all, now that Martin was coming back to life. That excuse rang hollow to his own ears. For all of Martin’s strengths, there was little competition – a half-absorbed Archivist was a more powerful ally by far.

More and more questions. So few answers. _Elias is going to die more than once,_ his mind whispered at him, _Elias and Peter are playing a game,_ it tried to shake him by the shoulders, _Martin is a pawn,_ it screamed, _and the existence of the Extinction is at stake. What are you doing_ sleeping, _you moron? Go back to the Institute, find out where Martin’s buried, and get to him. Now._

 _Stop being so hard on yourself, Jon._ The voice crept into his head again, warm and soothing and sleepy. _You’ve done so much to bring me back. You can let Basira and Daisy do some of the work while you get some rest. You need some rest, too. You’re not a monster._

Jon shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, but it did little. Frankly, he much preferred the kind voice in his mind that reminded him so of Martin than the self-hating voice in his mind that was probably closer to the truth. Martin, who was generally far more kind to him than Jon could possibly have expected or deserved.

And perhaps it _was_ Martin’s voice in his head, after all. With Jon’s newfound connection to the End, and with Martin’s currently ghostly nature, was it really so off the mark? _Hello, Martin,_ Jon thought to himself, only feeling faintly stupid, _If you’re really in there, say something to me._

A pause. Jon could’ve sworn he heard a fondly, faintly exasperated thought worm its way into his head, _I don’t think that’s how it works, idiot._

Perhaps Martin was there. Perhaps it was just his own tentative grasp on reality. Regardless, Jon smiled in the cool London evening as he approached his flat.

Even at three in the morning, Jon would occasionally come across other people on the pavement. People went out of their way to avoid him on the flat, not because he looked particularly dangerous but because Jon was sure he looked faintly crazed. And, Jon thought with a deep inhale, they weren’t entirely off the mark there.

He pressed a hand on his flat door. His mobile seemed to burn in his pocket. The entire time, he was waiting for a phone call – perhaps he would be lucky and Elias had made a neon sign about Martin’s gravesite. A remark that someone was dead and directions to a cemetery. And then they’d be off. Jon gripped his cane tighter at the thought of it.

Pushing inside, Jon took a deep breath. Sleep. No, he would have to feed Templeton first, the poor thing, and then he would sleep for however long it took Basira and Daisy to find the address. A nap sounded pleasant. Good, of course, and he was always safe in his flat --

Someone had other plans for him.

He got one step closer to the front room before Jon inhaled sharply, sudden awash with the sensation of Knowing. There was someone in his flat. When he tried to press as to _who,_ exactly, his mind returned nothing but wisps.

Jon looked back over his shoulder, half-expecting to see someone. _You could call the police,_ the rational, pre-Magnus Institute part of his mind told him, _and tell them that you … had a feeling. A gut sensation._ Great. And with any luck, whatever monstrous avatar would have a right meal out of their corpses.

He really wouldn’t get a moment’s rest, would he? Bouncing from one Avatar to another, getting horrified in new, creative ways …

Well. Perhaps it was nothing more than he deserved. Monsters among monsters.

A tape recorder clicked on from somewhere in the room.

_“Jon, you’ve got some reimbursement forms to authorize – you’re not Jon.” Tim’s voice. Young, younger than Jon remembered knowing him. This had to have been ages ago. “… What are you doing in Jon’s office?”_

_“Right, well -- !” The voice of one Martin Blackwood, had he really started working there when he sounded that young? It took Jon a moment to even recognize the tone. “Here’s the thing.”_

_“I’m listening.”_

_A pained sigh. “I misfiled one of the statements from earlier this morning. Read an ‘8’ as a ‘B’, sometimes it’s so hard to tell with Jon’s handwriting. I’m trying to listen to everything he’s recorded today to find the right one.”_

_“Oooooooh.” Tim’s voice was smug. “Martin’s going to be in_ trouble …!” _He sing-songed_ out to him. _“Where is he, then? These reimbursement forms are already overdue and Elias is getting snippy about it.” There was a rustling of fabric that Jon could only presume was Martin shrugging. “Great.” Papers, being placed on Jon’s desk. “Guess I’ll just go get chewed out by the blond shortstack, then?”_

_Martin clearly sat back in Jon’s chair, and rustled some of the papers again. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” A drawer rolling open. “Christ, Jon, I swear you just directly let loose your trail mix in here. Ehm – here, okay.”_

_“Is that Jon’s employment contract?” There was no response, but Martin apparently gave some gesture. “Quick, see how much he makes!” A pause, and then a slow whistle. “More than I would’ve thought for someone who sits around on his arse all day.”_

_There was the sound of Martin’s muffled agreement, and the click of a pen. A single sheet of paper being slid across his desk, and Tim’s cut-off “What are you – oh.” Then – “You’re really good at that. Can’t tell them apart.”_

_“Jon’s got a messy signature,” Martin explained away, “Easier to replicate the messy ones. Just scribbles, really.”_

_Tim hummed appreciatively. There was a noise like he wanted to inquire further, but something else caught his attention. “Martin, you do realize you’re recording over the tape, not playing it, right?”_

_“Oh shit –”_

The tape ended. Jon stared at the tape recorder, perched neatly on his couch. He walked over to it and extracted the tape, passing it between his hands as if it might be hot to the touch. Hard to imagine where it might’ve come from. Jon had gotten a few boxes of Martin’s old clothes and things into his flat a few days ago (because, back then, Jon had to think about things like Martin’s lease), but there had been no tape recorders.

“I don’t know what that was,” he announced to nobody, “But it didn’t _really_ do anything. What, are you looking to frighten me? You’ll have to do more than that. I just got back from managing a literal ghost.”

Regardless, his living room was clear. Jon looked around the corner to see the small, cramped kitchen. As he did so, a tape recorder made eye contact with him and clicked on before he could say a word.

_The sound of a door opening. There was the sound of something unpleasantly sticky squishy walking on soft carpet, and soft grunting, and Jon thought at first he was listening to perhaps Jared Hopworth’s favourite adult film of choice, before –_

_“It’s raining buckets outside,” Peter Lukas announced brightly._

_Suddenly, Jon became aware of a smaller sound in the background. Tapping. Someone was typing very rapidly. “Is it,” Martin muttered in the tone of someone making pleasant small talk with a coworker._

_“It is! Say, I think you’re wearing the same jumper that you were in last night.”_

_Martin had utterly, socially checked out. “That’s crazy, man,” he grunted, bored._

_“Did you ever go home?” There wasn’t any sort of response thrown his way. “Overnight in the Archives. Sounds rather cosy, honestly, though I can’t say I’m much one for working. What were you working on, Martin? Ugh, you’ve still got that bright jacket of yours here. Gaudy thing, isn’t it?”_

_Martin let out a sigh, a soft English sign that he’d really rather pull out his own teeth that continue the conversation. “All the bureaucracy of the Institute that you refuse to do, mostly.”_

_“Ah. Right, right.” Peter didn’t seem to care much. “Say, I saw the Archivist on my way here this morning. Poor man was waiting for a bus and forgot his umbrella. And not a soul offered him theirs. That’s human kindness for you.”_

_The typing paused. Martin’s chair squeaked as he turned on it, presumably to face Peter. “Oh?” He asked with clear hesitation in his voice._

_“He’s not a very sociable man, your Archivist,” Peter remarked warmly, “Do you know if he’s got anyone? Friends, family.”_

_“No.” Martin’s response was immediate, and his tone was dark. This was not the ‘no’ of a man answering Lukas’ question, this was the ‘no’ of a man immediately putting a stop to the rest of the conversation._

_“Aw, don’t talk like that. I’m only curious about him, and I’d rather not ask him myself.”_

_“Jon has people.”_

_“Like?”_

_“_ People,” _Martin enunciated. “So don’t get that look in your eyes, Peter. He’s not for your god, or entity, or whatever.”_

_A little breathy sigh escaped from Lukas. “I haven’t got any look in my eyes, do I? Besides, I don’t need anyone else working for me when I’ve got you. You’re already too much company to bear.” He paused, and the room was so quiet that Jon could hear the ticking of Lukas’ wristwatch. “Speaking of, I’ve got to be going. Good work, Martin. Be seeing you.” The door to the office shut and the sound of typing resumed again._

_At first, Jon thought that that was the end of the tape, before he heard Martin shift in his seat and lean against the desk. “You don’t need anyone else working for you when I’m here,” he muttered. The sound of his voice was distorted somewhat, as if he were resting his hand against his cheek. “Long as I’m here, Jon, you haven’t got anything to worry about from Lukas. Promise.” A beat. A chuckle. “I didn’t hear you turn on. What are you listening to, little buddy?”_

The tape ended. It had been resting on top of his breadbox. Jon stepped closer and picked up the tape, as same as the last one, and held it in his hands. Two, now. He slid it into his pocket. _Martin?_ He thought to himself – and, he hoped, to his friend. _Are … you the one who put these here? Why?_

Still feeling the sensation that someone was _here,_ watching him somehow, Jon kept the tapes in his hand and turned for the long hallway for his bedroom. His flat wasn’t very large. Some time ago, it had stopped feeling like his home and more like … a place where he went, when he could no longer stay at work. He blamed the constant travel, but he knew it ran deeper than that. Ran much more monstrously than that.

A quick peak inside the bathroom showed that there was nothing in there, which only left his bedroom. With the sensation that he was being _watched_ by something a lot more solid than the cobwebs that had started to cluster in the corners of his flat. He hadn’t swept them in a few days. At least they’d tend to the flies.

Jon’s bedroom door was shut. He was positive that he hadn’t shut it when he’d dropped Templeton off there the previous night. Why would he have any reason to? His breath caught in his throat. As he went for the doorknob, he heard a tape recorder click in the hallway. There wasn’t any sign of it around. As the tape continued to wind, Jon realized with a start that it was coming from inside his flat walls. Everything seemed softly _muffled._

_At first, there was nothing except for the sound of faint, crackling static. Then a heavy chair scraped across wood and he heard an awkward cough. Martin’s awkward cough._

_“Hi. If you’re hearing this, it … probably means I’m dead,” Martin spoke with an audible wince in his voice. “Jon, it probably means you’re listening. Not that I don’t – I mean – I don’t know if anyone will listen. Or notice, if I die, or, you know,_ care …” _There was an amount of bitterness in his voice edging on anger. “Just don’t let me rot down there in the Archives forever, okay? Like, I know you’ve got bigger things going on, but the least you can do is_ that _much, Jon.”_

_It was said accusingly, accusingly enough that the man it was directed towards cringed away from his bedroom door. Martin let out a soft, slow sigh._

_“Sorry. Sorry,” he mumbled. “This is a pretty shit last statement if I go off like that. Just nervous, I guess, and there’s not really anyone I can – that I_ want _to –” Martin paused. “Let me start again, okay?_

_Point is, whoever’s hearing this, whether you’re Jon or Basira or even Elias, hi. I’m either dead, or I’m as good as dead. Lukas probably had something to do with it, but I don’t – I don’t know exactly what he’s planning._

_Don’t let him get another assistant. He might tell them that he’s planning on stopping the Extinction and that their help is necessary. For_ saving the world, _even.” Martin’s tone edged into bitterness again. “Don’t listen to him. It’s all bullshit._

_The Extinction still exists, I think, but I don’t know whether it’s a new fear or an old fear that just keeps it to itself and frankly, I’m not even sure whether it matters. I don’t think it’s threatening the end of the world as we know it. I think it’s just a … a cover._

_I don’t know what Lukas is planning with me. I know he’s not setting me up to be some hero to stop the end of the world. I mean, look at me, I’m not exactly – I’m not exactly_ you, _Jon,”_ Martin chuckled at himself, “ _I am the man who runs away. I am the man who makes tea. I am the man who waits until the gigantic prick he’s got feelings for comes home and lectures him for worrying.”_

_That was fair._

_“If you want my biggest theory, it’s that Lukas is like all the others. Wants to recruit people to either join or feed his little god of fear. Wants to recruit me to either join or feed his little god of fear. Honestly, I don’t really think there’s much of a difference with the Lonely. Joining, feeding. And if you’re listening to me say this, then chances are … I did go along with it._

_I’m doing this, working with him like this, to keep his attention off you. I don’t want him going after you – especially you, Jon. But Jon, I’m begging you, please do_ not _listen to a word he says. He’ll take you away from the only things that keep you human, I swear he will._

_But I’m going to stay human. I’m not going to – I don’t care if he kills me. I don’t care if I die. I know who I am. I am Martin Blackwood, and I’m not going to do anything that hurts my friends._

_Well. I guess it’s sort of moot, isn’t it. Considering I’m dead now, or near enough to it._

_I’m sorry, Jon. Really. Ehm, obviously, I think you know by now, or maybe you’ve always known, how I fee – you know. It doesn’t matter, now. But if you ever doubt that you’re not human enough for someone to care about you, remember me, alright? Remember Martin, who frankly had a much harder time fancying you when you were my dickish boss than when you became only partially human._

_I just. I wouldn’t like to be forgotten._

_I know you feel helpless. Maybe you are, I don’t know, but I also know that you’re the only person who can even put a dent in something this big. Okay? I did what I could to help, and now, you might have to do this without me. It’s not going to be a gigantic loss, I promise. I’ve been preparing you for this for ages._

_Okay. I – er, bye.”_

The tape ended. There were tears in Jon’s eyes, again, had sprouted since he had first understood the purpose of the tape, and he had to rest his hand against the wall to maintain his composure. He still had someone else in his flat, watching, waiting for him, but Jon needed a goddamn _minute. Martin, if you’re out there, you have to say something to me. Please, I just need confirmation, that you’re not – forever –_

Nothing. His mind was wholly his own, and perhaps it always had been. He scrubbed his sleeve against his eyes as he kept his balance. There were no tears falling, but they threatened him nonetheless. Christ, who would _do_ a thing like this? _Right, then,_ Jon told himself, not directing his thoughts outward, _Up you pop. Let’s go. Burglars to catch out._

He reached forward on the door handle and pushed it in, stepping into his bedroom.

A woman sat on his windowsill. The window itself was open, letting snowflakes drift into the room and settle, melting, on the carpet. The breeze caused the curtains to blow open gently, as thin as gossamer, half-entangling themselves on her shoulders, her neck, her head. It made the room terribly cold. Goosebumps erupted all over Jon’s skin.

She had to have been seven and a half feet tall, easily – at least, tall enough to be unsettling. She had to crane her shoulders so her head wouldn’t brush against the ceiling. Her legs stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles. The dress she was wearing had once been very long. Instead, the black circle skirt stopped just over her knees. Cobwebs encrusted the rest of her legs, criss-crossing wisps covering most of her dark brown legs like silk stockings.

The top half of the dress was eggshell white but was draped so heavily with webbing that Jon couldn’t have been sure as to the intended color. Spiders were visible within that moving mass. Occasionally, a large black body would wiggle its way out and cross over her shirt before burrowing back again. Despite the web, Jon noted that her movement didn’t seem _…_ impeded at all.

In fact, she was manipulating her arms and torso quite easily, given that she had Templeton in her grasp. She was stroking one long finger down his spine. Templeton was chewing on something as he rested in her hands.

No, she wasn’t going to be messing with Jon’s pet.

“Let the rat down,” Jon ordered in a dark tone of voice. “Put him _back_ in his cage.” His cage was empty, perched on the portion of the windowsill opposite Annabelle Cane. It was the first time that they’d met in person, but who _else_ could it be? Finally come to terrify him in person.

Jon noticed that the rat cage was still open, and something distinctly large, eight-legged, and mildly furry was resting in it.

Jon shuddered. _God damn it. Spiders. Why must I still have arachnophobia when I’ve seen so many other things that are objectively much more frightening?_ Annabelle shifted herself, extending one too-long arm to place Templeton back there. Jon put out a hand to stop her. “No! Just put him down.”

She uttered a soft chuckle. It sounded … dry. Annabelle turned her head to look at Jon head on, and that was when Jon remembered: Annabelle Cane had had her skull cracked open years ago.

From her right side of her eyebrow to just above her right ear, Annabelle’s head was open. Blessedly, Jon couldn’t see very far inside. What he could see was thick cobwebs, casting only a pale, silvery white on the inside of her skull. The webs were wrapped like bandages around that side of her head, covering up all sight in her right eye.

And yet, Jon felt as if she could see him just fine. Every so often, another small, black body would crawl out of her skull and skitter across the side of her face. Jon saw them enter her mouth, lips always cracked open. He only saw blackness within, far too shiny to be shadow.

“Fantastic you could join us,” she whispered. She sounded badly in need of a drink, and Jon didn’t want to know how many bodies inside her he’d be hydrating if he gave her one. “We’ve been _so_ interested in meeting you in person.”

Anxiety ripped through Jon. There was something innately terrible about this woman. Nothing was more excruciating, nothing more unexplainable, nothing more irrational than a fear developed and fostered since early childhood.

He felt like he was about three feet tall, missing his two front teeth, and was generally an unpleasant brat again. Decades and experience couldn’t change the fact that he could almost _feel_ tiny little spider legs crawling on him, reaching for him, wanting a bite …

His stomach was jumping up and down in fear, and Jon couldn’t help but picture the organ, stuffed full of skittering spiders. Spiders crawling in his ears, his mouth, his eyes – _no._ Jon shut his lids to try and keep himself from falling to pieces.

“No need to be frightened, Jon,” she murmured, “It’s … distracting.”

Jon swallowed.

“You’ve been quite restless, haven’t you?” She uncrossed her ankles, Templeton still held in her hands. The rat did not seem scared. Jon had to resist the urge to tell him off when he saw Templeton eat a spider. Annabelle did not seem to mind. “Sorry. I know you’ve come to nap after killing a man – or _did_ you kill a man – but we really desperately had to talk.”

Jon opened his eyes again and found that he was staring directly into her free pupil. Jon could not bring himself to look away. Purely to see if he could, Jon tried, and found that he was well and truly stuck. As if it were not his own, his mouth opened. “Yes, Annabelle. I’m sorry, Annabelle.”

Annabelle tossed her head back. Her mouth opened wide – too wide – and she laughed, a soft croak that seemed softer than it should have been. “Jon, isn’t it so much _easier_ to be polite?” She asked.

Jon’s arm went to his mouth to cover it. Like hell was he going to permit someone else to be using his voice. As he kept it pressed against his skin, he was only dimly aware of his other hand going to pull it away. “That’s the funny thing, Jon,” Annabelle continued, “If we wanted to, we could make you lay down while we wrapped you up in webbing. Let you be eaten to death by my busy little workers. They’d be so grateful. You’d be so grateful. Could you imagine it?”

Jon could very well imagine it. He could imagine the web being wound about him until he could no longer move, he could imagine hearing their skittering across the floor, he could imagine being _gnawed_ at, bit by bit.

“ _Are … you … looking … to … scare … me?”_ Jon uttered out between clenched teeth, every word requiring him to force it out. If he were under his own control, he’d be shouting. “ _Good … for … you. Not … hard.”_

Jon was treated to another dry, thick laugh from Annabelle, and suddenly Jon’s movements were his own again. He felt his shoulders slump as he stumbled backward onto his bed. A cold sweat had broken out on his brow. He wanted a cigarette and a lie-down.

“ _No,_ I know that we scare you more than the others. I also know you feel a little silly about it. We’re not even _actively_ threatening your life most of the time, and for some reason, you’re scared of _us_ most,” Annabelle teased. “Should we feel flattered?”

“What do you want, Annabelle.” It was not stated as a question. “If you’ve come to kill me for ruining your little plan, fine, have at it.” Jon grasped his cane with both of his hands and held it in front of his chest. “Go on. I’m _actively_ threatening you. Compel me to bash my skull in with my own cane.” The end of the cane was jabbed vaguely threateningly in her direction. “We’ll match.”

The words were stated nonchalantly, blankly, but Jon did not feel very nonchalant or blank. He felt tired and desperate and so, so frighteningly helpless.

He was so _tired._ He just wanted to _rest._ Let any Entity in the world have him if it would let him bring Martin back.

His hands shook on the cane as she compelled him to do _something_ with it, but Jon didn’t know what, and _oh, god, he was failing her, he couldn’t do what she wanted, he –_

He was himself. Jon blinked at her and put the cane down on the bed. “You’re not as stupid as you look. You know we wouldn’t be here _ourselves_ to kill you.” Annabelle brushed something off the lap of her skirt. A few spider carcasses rattled to the floor. “A little unnecessary. And Elias is the only one that gets off on watching.”

Right. “Then why are you here?”

Annabelle tossed Templeton to Jon. It was preceded by a small, stiff wave of the arm, as casual as if she was planning to toss Jon a ball. Jon let out a grunt of distress – _don’t throw the rat! –_ before he caught Templeton. Templeton turned around and around in his hands, and Jon found himself stroking the scared creature sympathetically.

Rising to her full height, Annabelle had to hunch even further to keep from brushing against the ceiling. It gave her the unintended, unfortunate ability to look right down at Jon. Jon looked up to stare into her dark, dark eyes. A spider crawled over them and she did not react.

“You’ve bungled things,” Annabelle commented, “But we would not say _ruin.”_

“You went to an awful lot of trouble to kill Martin. And, if I can trust Amara, he’s not dead anymore. I’d say that’s ‘ruin’, isn’t it?”

“No, because my goal wasn’t to kill Mr. Blackwood. My goal was to bring something to your, and Elias’, and Peter’s, attention.”

The idea that Martin might’ve been killed in order to spread some awareness to _him_ sent Jon cold, and he stopped petting the rat in his hands.

“To you? I wanted you to stop being quite so _blind,_ Jon. You’re incredibly short-sighted and, for someone like myself, it’s incredibly aggravating. You could at least pretend to be useful. Stop fighting from the sight you’ve been given. You’re much more useful when you forget your identity.”

Right. “And Elias’ and Lukas’ attention?”

The gaze turned darker. Moonlight filtered in from the window, shining straight through the exposed part of her skull. “That they are not as _clever as they think.”_

 _“Neither are you.”_ The fateful phrase was out of Jon’s mouth before he could stop himself, but he could feel his temper rising. Martin – Martin, who had been through so much, Martin, who had been used and manipulated his entire _life_ – had been killed in order to prove a point to three _jackasses_ who were so exceptionally _full of themselves_ that they’d never see it. No, Jon thought, glaring up at the spiderwoman, _make that four._ “The End? Keeping Martin alive as a ghost, I – I – I _hardly_ think that was in your plan, was it?”

A frown settled along her face, pulling her lips downward. “So difficult to compel Avatars,” she considered, “But Martin’s life is not very good insurance. You do realize that it would be no great effort for me to simply have him killed _again._ Maybe we’ll just do it ourselves. Need some practice.”

Jon felt like he was near ready to explode. “Leave Martin out of this!” He snapped. “You dangling my friends’ lives in front of me _isn’t_ going to change things. Now, if you, of all the bloody avatars I’ve _talked_ to in the past few days, actually gives me some information about what’s _going to happen_ – so that I’m not _entirely in the dark_ – then _maybe_ I can stop scrounging around for answers!”

Annabelle considered this. For a haunting moment, she simply stared down at him as Jon stared up. _It isn’t that I’m not scared,_ Jon realized with a start, _it’s simply that I don’t care if I die._ Certainly there was a point where a fly simply accepted his fate.

She turned around and sat on the edge of the windowsill again. Her shirt fit awkwardly around her torso, as if she were hiding … something. _Arms!_ Jon’s brain supplied unhelpfully. _Extra arms. My, what extra arms you have, grandmother._

Perhaps he was going giddy. Perhaps he was losing his mind. Either way, Annabelle shrugged and nodded. “We agree. You deserve some information. You’ve dealt with too much misinformation, Jon. Either you have people like Elias, who lie to you outright, or you have people like Lukas, who act kind but are quite eager to twist you apart as they see fit.”

Her fingers went up to comb through her short blond hair, or what remained of it. “In that case, we’re going to give you a simple piece of information, and ask you a simple question. We’ll keep it as simple as possible.

Frankly, even with all our information, we don’t know the best thing to do. So perhaps it’s better to leave the situation up to someone utterly foolish. At least you can claim you didn’t know any better. Understand?”

Jon didn’t respond at the additional blow to his intelligence. Instead, he looked down at Templeton, now somewhat settled on his lap.

“If you resurrect Martin Blackwood, the world is going to end. We’re absolutely certain of it.” A pause. A blink. “Would you like us to kill him again?”

His head shot up to stare at her. Looking for the deception. The manipulation. Hell, even the _joke._ But he received no help. She offered him no additional assistance, and Jon got _angry._

Angry at Annabelle. Angry at the woman who’d broken into his home, insulted him, frightened him, and finally gave him a choice he was absolutely not prepared to make.

Angry at himself. Angry because his gut reaction was to say _no, of course I don’t want you to fucking stop the resurrection,_ even if what she said was true, even if somehow Martin was the catalyst in _all_ of this. Angry because even now, he was thinking of a thousand excuses to defend his decision.

“How the _hell_ can I trust you?” Jon snapped. “I _can’t._ You’re basically the bloody Avatar of being controlled and you’re trying to control me now. Giving me some question with an obvious answer and expecting me to take it. _I see through you, Annabelle,_ I see what you’ve been doing! All this time – leaving notes for me to meet Basira in the tunnels – writing my name in your web – I bet you’re even the one who’s making me think I’ve got Martin’s _voice_ in my head, aren’t you!?”

He had gotten up to stand directly in front of her, spiders be damned. They crawled on his shoes. Jon heard Templeton give a concerned squeak behind him, but nevertheless remained on the bed.

Annabelle sighed, causing a few weaving spiders to sway in the exhale. “Jon,” she explained patiently, “We haven’t done a _thing_ to you besides instructing my workers to stich your name in a web.” A pause, and then a chilling, shiny smile. “And leave some tape recorders to answer some … lingering questions, in your flat.”

That disarmed him. “W-what?”

“While I’m inclined to think that the forged letters were from your spectral friend, we do believe the thoughts you’ve heard in your head are your own.”

Just the grief of a man who had lost his dearest friend. He went quiet at the realization. No, there had been no supernatural sharing of thoughts – Jon had imagined Martin’s voice in his head because he had _missed_ him. “Ah.”

“You do lose your temper quite a bit, you know. We were watching as you half-attacked Basira in the mortuary, believing she had caused the fire.’

“In my defense, I have been under quite a bit of stress,” Jon muttered. “Work is very stressful, and I did apologise later.”

“We know. We saw that, too. So that is your answer, we presume? No?”

“It’s not – “ A pause. “I’m not _damning_ the world because of Martin Blackwood. It’s just that you haven’t proven to be particularly trustworthy in the face. For all I know, you just want him to stay dead and you’ll say whatever you must to get that.”

“A fair enough point. And you do not want to take the risk?”

“I’m not a risk-taker,” Jon sighed out. “I’m just – I really am just tired, Annabelle.”

“We understand.” Annabelle pushed herself back onto the windowsill further. The curtains weaved their way around her, cascading down onto her shoulders. “We wouldn’t feel _too_ guilty about what happens next.”

Just as Jon opened his mouth to ask precisely what she meant by that, his phone rang in his pocket. He reached down to pick it up and held it to his ear. In that one swift movement, the spiderwoman vanished from his windowsill. So did much of her creature traces, though Jon noted unhappily he saw quite a few scattering on his floor still.

“Yes?” John asked wearily as he went to sit on the bed. He patted Templeton’s back gently.

“Jon. The address was sitting on the top of his desk,” Basira murmured into the phone. “Trent Park Cemetery. Meet us there.”


	14. Middle of the Arctic, Somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: None

“You’re going to be just fine in there, Templeton,” Jon cautioned as he urged the little rat into his cage. Templeton went unwillingly, though seemed slightly more enthused as Jon took out the cluster of cobwebs that had gathered in his igloo. “I’m going to go get your owner back. Would you like that?”

It only felt a little stupid to be half-cooing to a rat, but the creature nevertheless looked up at him with wide eyes that Jon inferred to be grateful. With Templeton secured, Jon tore out of his flat as if it were on fire. There was still a damn tape recorder stuck in his wall with what probably amounted to his friend’s last will and testament in it, but fine, _it was fine._

Jon was at the front door before he recalled _the fucking cane,_ then tore back up the stairs to retrieve it. His hands were shaking all the while, breath catching sharp in his throat as he retrieved the reassuring wood and raced back out to find a cab.

“Please, please, please, please, please, not a maniac, just trying to get somewhere,” Jon pleaded under his breath as he stared at the bright lights on the street. It took a few minutes before some cab driver, either not particularly caring about the bedraggled-looking man or not seeing him properly in the dark reflection of the street, pulled over. “ _Thank_ you. Trent Park cemetery, please.”

The cab driver nodded and pulled away from the curb. As he did, he clearly caught sight of Jon – clearly haven’t slept, clearly bedraggled, clearly smeared with mud. He raised an eyebrow at his scruffy passenger in the backseat, wordless.

Unlike the man he was currently aiming to save, Jon was not a particularly acceptable liar. He usually refused to do so altogether, although the alternative was not particularly noble. Jon usually defaulted to being rude and unfortunately for the cabbie, Jon had had a very _bad_ day.

“I’m certain this isn’t the strangest thing you’ve ever had in your cab,” Jon rebuked sharply.

They passed the streets of London slowly. It was starting to get congested with snow, cars passing at a minor crawl as flakes started to aggregate in the corners of the windshield. The inside of the cab was heated, but as Jon touched the glass, he still felt himself shiver. It was going to be dawn in a few hours.

 _Martin’s going to be cold,_ Jon thought to himself distractedly, _you might need to take a trip to hospital for hypothermia._ It would be devastating and _precisely_ his luck if Martin died, _again,_ only a few hours after he was resurrected. The cab driver was blessedly silent as Jon stared intently out the window, muscles wound up. _Six feet worth of digging to do. He’s probably already awake. Christ. I hope they’re there already. Martin, I’m coming, I promise, please just hold on a little longer. Please._

He was so transfixed at the outside of the window that he hadn’t notice the cab driver’s expression pull into a tight, uncomfortable frown.

He was so set on the situation at hand that he hadn’t noticed the heat start to seep out, leaving him colder than ever before.

He wanted to save Martin so badly that he didn’t notice as a hand – coming from the previously unoccupied seat next to him – reached over the center seat and gripped his shoulder, hard. It was so cold it hurt and had the texture of wet seaweed.

Jon yelped at the feeling, only to be confronted with the face of Peter Lukas. Water droplets had crystallized on his face and beard; Jon imagined that afloat corpses looked as friendly. His yellow raincoat was stiff with frost. “ _Time’s up,”_ he informed him amiably, “Ready for your orientation?”

The world dissolved into fuzzy gray static around Jon as he felt his senses turn off, one by one. From the cab driver’s perspective, he couldn’t rightly recall picking up a strange man with a frazzled hair _or_ a frozen middle-aged ship captain.

-

The metal trawler bounced up and down the rocky waves as if being tossed by some uncaring creature below. It was small enough to be comfortably piloted by two people – on clear waters, it would perhaps present a calm venue for fishing. Fish nets ran up and down its sides, ready to be plunged down, though they did nothing more than provide an insufficient barrier for the offending water. Jon’s first sensation was a blast of saltwater directly to the face.

Jon was immediately thrown onto his hands and knees. His palms skidded against the wet wood of the boat as he tried to gather his bearings. _What --! Where -?_ He looked up and around, over the metal railings on the edges of the boat. In front of him was a threatening gray sky, casting down rain in uncaring sheets. Jon saw lightning in the distance, though the boom didn’t quite reach his ears.

And the sea. In all directions, just violent, churning waves. They were in the middle of a storm that this tiny fishing trawler was not meant to handle. And the water froze him until Jon couldn’t imagine an ounce of warmth ever entering his body again.

His cane was still with him and knocked against the wood deck as it was tossed around with the rest of him. Jon’s clothing was quickly soaked through by the chilled water, but he barely noticed it, because _where in the ever-loving fuck was he. Where had Lukas taken him? The middle of the bloody Arctic?_

_He was meant to save Martin!_

“Team-building exercise!” A voice boomed from the helm. Lukas’ hands were on the wooden wheel as it jerked underneath his hands. Jon raised his face to look at him. Lukas looked like he had always meant to be at the wheel, as much a fixture as a figurehead. “Was never much a fan of it, myself, but talking with you gave me just the _best_ idea!”

“What!” Jon roared back. His voice was swiftly taken by the wind, and he had no idea if Lukas – or _anyone –_ could hear him. “ _What the hell are you talking about!?”_

“You’re my assistant now, Jon!” Jon struggled to his feet. His knees trembled and knocked together. Jon reached for the railing and clung to it for dear life, occasionally supporting his full weight as his legs were pulled out from underneath him. He stared desperately up at the sky.

There was nothing more than the ship’s marine radar on the mast, standing ten or fifteen feet up from the ground. It constantly rotated to scan the water’s surface. _Guess what, there’s a hell of a lot of water out there, but I can’t imagine there’s much else._ “Or have you forgotten your promise?”

 _No._ No, he didn’t have time for this, where the hell _was_ he? Jon’s first instinct was that he was transported into the Lonely – they were, after all, in the middle of nowhere. Apparently.

But there was no crushing feeling of isolation – no sense that he was unloved, unwanted, _disliked_ by all – no sense that his presence, his _life,_ was a burden on others. _And_ he didn’t think the Lonely would be _quite this goddamn hectic._

“I have to get back!” Jon struggled to his feet again, walking a few steps up the boat. He clutched the railing like his lifeline – until his hands slipped on the wet surface and he fell on his face. His cheek slammed against the deck, enough that Jon felt an uncomfortable twinge in his teeth. Jon worked on trying to push himself up again. He slid miserably. “Martin is – _I have to save Martin! He’s **alive,** Peter!” _

“That’s not what you said.” Lukas sounded perfectly calm from his position on the helm, even if Jon could see the way his body struggling to keep upright against the storm. “You said, Peter Lukas, I will be your assistant if I can get closure on Martin’s death. Well, you’ve met his murderer, met the woman who coordinated his murder, _and_ brought him back to life. I think that’s enough closure. Wouldn’t you agree, Jon?”

“Where the _hell_ are we?”

“Like I said! Team-building exercise. This is my little fishing vessel! The _di Morra –_ and what a beautiful lady she is. I fancy we’re getting a little close to iceberg territory! Have you ever seen _Titanic,_ Jon?”

Jon tried to resist the urge to be sick. A particularly enthusiastic wave rocked the _di Morra_ to the side, almost capsizing it. If Jon could feel the water start to freeze onto his skin up above, he didn’t want to think about how cold the water would be below.

“Now, Jon, you’re going to help _me_ keep her afloat. Let’s get you over to the radar, there’s a good one.”

“I’m not going to _help_ you do anything!” Jon spat. He glared up at Lukas in his sickly yellow raincoat. “I’m not going to be your assistant, I’m _not_ going to do your dirty work, and I’m _not_ going to join you and your Entity.” A few steps closer to the helm and Jon’s legs were feeling like rubber again. He clung to the railing for dear life, squeezing his eyes shut tight. _I need to get back. They need me yet. I’m needed._

In front of him, Lukas made a displeased noise. “But you did give your word, Jon. You’ll have me thinking you’re some kind of liar, on top of everything else.”

“I hardly think I’m going to lose any sleep over it.”

As soon as Jon gave his scathing remark, he heard the metal vessel start to … move. Condense.

It was not meant to move that way.

The hull _creaked_ underneath him from the force of the water. Jon looked over the side of the railing and noticed that, instead of a single continuous piece of metal, there was a fist-sized _hole_ in the side. Rusted metal peeled around it. From the looks of it, the rest of the vessel wasn’t going to hold up much longer. “How _old_ is this thing,” he hissed under his breath, after another violent churn nearly sent him topping over the railing.

Lukas let out a sigh. “I was hoping you’d get us out of the storm before it came to this. If the Eye can’t guide a dinghy out of some rain, what good is it?”

The Archivist finally found his footing. He could hear the _glug-glug-glug_ of water getting sucked into the hole in the vessel. While Jon was not precisely a seafarer, he knew enough about air and holes to know that they weren’t going to be afloat for much longer. Even standing near the side of the vessel with the hole, he found himself being _angled_ over the railing as if sinking.

Martin needed him, and he _refused_ to drown in the middle of what felt like the god damn _Arctic._

“Send me back to London!” Jon shouted to Lukas, stepping forward to him. Although his legs wavered, Jon managed a few steps. “I _have_ to rescue Martin. I’m never going to help you, so whatever this is – it needs to _end._ I’m not _staying.”_

Lukas spared Jon a pitying look that made his stomach churn. Even as Lukas’ hair curled out from underneath his woolen hat, even as his beard seemed thick and frozen with frost, even as Indra stormed around him – he was looking at Jon as if he were making a terrible, terrible mistake.

“Jon.” Lukas’ voice was quiet, and yet, Jon somehow heard it perfectly all around him. It seemed to come from within his own mind. “Don’t you think it’s better this way? Do you think you’re _ever_ going to feel peace when you still associate with those – those people, who do nothing but bring you into danger and cause you trouble?” A beat passed between them. “How many avatars have you spoken with in the past couple of days, just because of Martin Blackwood? How scared they made you feel? If you’re concerned about the boy’s wellbeing, fair enough, but he’s _alive_ and he’ll be taken care of.

Your job is _done._ Give yourself a reward, and come with me, and you’ll never have to worry about people again. You’ll never have to deal with something like this,” Lukas gestured towards the storm, “Again.” 

And, god help him, Jon thought about it.

Six. Six avatars: Elias, Peter, Helen, Amara, Larsen, and Annabelle – each scaring him in their own unique way, however subtle that was. Two ruined friendships, too, because Jon seriously doubted that things would ever turn up enough for him to speak to Melanie and Georgie again.

He recalled how he felt when he agreed to be Lukas’ assistant in the first place. Numb and cold, yes, but god above, numb and cold was better than panicked and on fire.

 _I’ll be okay, Jon,_ Martin’s voice seemed to whisper to him, _You saved me. I’m alive. I can’t ask you to do anything more._

He knew that was just his own mind, giving excuses. Trying to find the easiest solution to this problem, but not the best one. But after this, Jon had to pause and think about whether he deserved something easy after all this time. After all he had suffered. The ship sank a little more into the sea – water started to lap on the port side of the boat, and Jon had to keep a hold on the railing to keep himself steady. He felt like he was being sucked in.

In the past twenty-four hours, he had struck a deal with Amara Monti, he had broken into a mansion, he had been terrorized by a ghost, he had potentially killed a man, he had resurrected his friend, and now he was going to grave-rob said friend’s grave.

If he just … went with Lukas, now : Martin was alive, Martin would be taken care of. It would be Basira – capable, if growing worryingly overpragmatic. Daisy, who was recovering in the way that Martin needed to. And Martin. Good, sweet, kind Martin. Martin, who was positive that Lukas was up to something, and maybe Jon would be protecting them all if he went with Peter.

He cared about them all so much. Even if he couldn’t always stop and confront it, Jon was faced with the fact that he _needed them all so much._

They had been through hell with him. Certainly, they mocked him relentlessly, but Jon knew that if he didn’t have that – that _human_ element to it – he would be much worse off.

They wanted him to be his best. They didn’t try to control him. They never tried to manipulate him – to deceive him for their own benefit – to misrepresent information – to think of him as some sort of _asset,_ but not as a person. Yes, Christ, he was a monster, but they never treated him like a _lost cause._ He was a member of a _team._

_Don’t go running off on your own again, Jon._

He started to chuckle underneath his breath. It was giddy, almost delirious in its enthusiasm. Jon had to bend over the railing to conceal the laugh in his elbow, because Christ, wasn’t it just so funny. When he looked up, he saw that one end of the boat had dipped below the edge of the water. _Oh, I loved Titanic,_ he thought to himself, which cause another round of giggles. _Nearer, my god, to thee!_

“What,” Lukas asked, and suddenly Jon realized that the man had crossed over the boat to stand by his side. A hand was on his back. “Is so _funny?_ You know I don’t like being left out of jokes.”

“You really have such an interest in getting me to join you.” Jon raised his head from his elbow to look at the captain. The tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes had started to freeze, but Jon didn’t pay it any mind. There was a certain warmth burning in his chest from the laughter, and Jon wanted to continue to stoke it.

“And – the thing is, Peter, the thing that is just hilarious, is that I think I’m the _least_ likely candidate to _ever_ join the Lonely.” He put one hand on the railing. The metal felt more solid beneath his grip. “You see, I’m – I’m _pathetic._ I’m a _wreck._ I’m a misanthrope that cannot seem to _function_ without relying on others. I need to be helped _constantly._ Left to my own devices, I am a paranoid _disaster_ of a man.”

One foot on the railing. Jon felt for his footing there, his cane gripped awkwardly in his underarm. “But, as it happens, I don’t _actually_ know if I want to give all that up. Because, if I join you, I wouldn’t _want_ to care about them. I would be content to let the world _end_ around me. I would be happy to let them _die._ ”

He pushed himself up on the railing. Jon was standing on it, now, trying to brace himself as best as he could. Lukas was staring up at him with abject fury in his eyes, the usually friendly face now twisted into something hateful.

Wind whipped around his thin clothing, roaring in his ears. Strands of hair flicked around his face. He could hardly keep his breath as he stared over the railing into the gray, murky water. His clothing was whipped around him, and Jon’s lungs alternated between _too full too full_ and _completely flat._

The storm grew worse. Jon was half-buffeted by it. He knew that it wasn’t a purely natural force keeping himself situated on the icy rail. Thunder boomed in his ears, right above them, now. He could look down and see that Lukas was dark red with rage. Lukas was reaching out a hand to snatch him down.

Jon had to raise his voice into a shout to be heard. Each word was its own syllable as he tried to drive the point into Lukas’ thick skull. “ _But – I – Can’t – Sit – By – And – Let – The – World – End!”_ He yelled at the top of his lungs, hoping that it wouldn’t all be whipped away by the wind. He swayed dangerously, letting out a cold bark of a laugh. “ _Not – For – Anyone! Not – For – Him! I – Can’t – Be – Your – Avatar – Of – Isolation! Because!_

_They – Need – Me – To – Stay!”_

_Just this once,_ Jon thought to himself desperately, _let friendship and love save the day. Please. Otherwise, this is going to be a very, very cold way to die._

Then, he leaned forward and let himself fall forward, over the railing. Jon hit the water hard. It seemed to wrap around his body, encasing him in a frigid little coffin, as he shut his eyes tight. He brought his cane close to his body in a misguided attempt to have something to hold onto.

He thought that perhaps Lukas would let him die. The man had no goodwill in him, but perhaps if Jon froze to death out here – then Martin would be too angry to ever consent to working for him, again. And Martin would be his own man.

Death had its own sort of peace, he supposed.

It was not the way he wanted to die, but it was not altogether for an unworthy cause. Jon closed his eyes and started to feel himself sink. He still had air for another minute or so, and wondered dimly if he would die of drowning or the frigid temperatures. The water still pushed him this way and that, and he had to add ‘being dashed against a metal trawler’ to the list.

His feet touched solid ground far sooner than they should have.

Confused, Jon opened his eyes. This was not a trawler in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t recognize it, at first, as foggy and dark as it was. Still, he could breathe – and shiver, as Jon realized that water was quickly freezing onto his body. Christ, was that cold, but there was _air_ in his lungs and wind on his face. And Jon was free.

A wrought metal gate stood in front of him, illuminated by a nearby streetlamp. Jon stepped forward to peer at the sign on the fence. Right, he just had to figure out where he was.

_Trent Park Cemetery._

Lukas had returned him. For whatever reason, whatever devious end that Lukas had, Lukas had returned him to exactly where he needed to be. Which meant that Jon knew exactly what he had to do.

Jon didn’t hesitate. He took off at a run into the cemetery as the full moon shone. There was no time to wait, because for God’s sake, they all _needed_ him yet. Even as he was weighed down with exhaustion and cold, even as he struggle with his cane on the cold ground.

As he tore through Trent Park, Jon quickly realized that this area possessed two main advantages for grave-robbing: one, it was a fairly small sort of cemetery, and two, it was rather flat. Fog hugged the low ground, but Jon had no serious trouble in locating Basira and Daisy standing about an open grave.

Jon’s heart was pounding in his chest. They were so close. Nothing, not even a sea captain governed by the Lonely, could stop him. The Eye itself could come down and beg his eternal servitude and Jon was ready to tell it to fuck _off._

“Christ, Jon, you’re dripping wet.” Basira looked up from where she and Daisy had been digging. They had gotten a foot or so into the grave - they were at shin height, regardless, even with as tall as Basira was. “Where the hell have you _been?_ I called you an hour ago. _”_

“Lukas caught up to me,” Jon explained. His shoes sloshed as he went forward, and Jon could feel his hair start to stiffen around his neck from the cold. “ _Please_ tell me you’ve got an extra shovel.” _God help me, I’m going to start digging with my hands otherwise._

Daisy looked up from where she was digging. She looked pale and exhausted, and Jon realized, not for the first time, how digging someone up from being buried alive _might_ just affect her. There was mud starting to encrust over the front of her shirt. Jon shook his head, stepping forward. “Daisy, if you want to take a rest – “

“ _No.’_ The answer was a growl. Not a noise that usually came from Daisy, barely even human, and Daisy returned back to digging. Her muscles had atrophied somewhat from her encounter in the Buried, but she seemed to be digging much more efficiently than her muscular structure would allow. “I’m _doing_ this.”

“Right. Right,” Jon backed off. They did in fact have an extra shovel, leaning up against the tree. He took it and hopped down into the grave with them. He hadn’t looked to see if there was a headstone, any sort of grave marker – had there been any sort of ceremony at all, or had Elias just paid a few men to dig a grave and toss Martin’s coffin in it?

“You okay?” Basira asked as Jon started to dig. Jon was shivering badly; his clothes soaked and hanging wet on him. He couldn’t do this for long. He’d freeze to stone right there in the middle of the cemetery.

Leaving was not an option right then. “Fine,” Jon muttered as he dug his shovel into frozen earth. “I’ll be fine.”

And he would be. When everyone was safe for fifteen consistent minutes, Jon would be fucking _elated._

They dug in silence for a few minutes as Jon desperately tried to cast out any thoughts of boats, of Lukas, of the cold. He didn’t know why Lukas had saved his life, when he easily could have let him die. Did Lukas genuinely think that Jon was going to have a role in stopping the Extinction? Did someone else need him to stay alive?

Daisy worked the hardest out of the three of them, through sheer determination. Her pale muscles flexed as she let out a series of soft, determined grunts. Basira and Jon encountered some difficulties with the Earth, but Daisy was efficient in a way that couldn’t have been entirely human. There was something in her eyes that Jon didn’t like.

But, Jon had to admit, it was working.

Soon, they became aware of a … noise. They were at their knees in the dirt, and Jon started to hear something below them. It was arrhythmic but constant, and Jon could feel the vibrations right in his feet.

It sounded like thumping.

Christ.

“Martin!” Jon, along with Basira, worked with renewed vigor. “Martin, we _have_ you, everything is going to be alright!” His shouting tone of voice probably wasn’t the most calming thing in the world, but to hell with it, he figured. “We’re going to get you out!”

The thumping continued as they dug. To their knees, then to their thighs, then to their waists in the deep earth. The digging grew tougher the farther down they got, and Daisy’s soft grunts had started to turn into rough snarls. “ _Daisy –”_ Basira warned, but as they got to their midsections, Daisy threw her a dark glance.

He would have to speak with her, later. To apologize for coercing her into this – this _graverobbing_ session. But that would come after they rescued Martin, and stopped that awful thumping that Jon could feel beneath his feet.

It was Basira’s shovel that struck something not wood first. Strangely enough, the coffin wood seemed softer than the frozen, packed earth. Jon heard the sound of splintering and the thumping abruptly stopped from within. “Shit,” Basira muttered.

Jon and Daisy cleared the last of the dirt with their hands. It dug underneath Jon’s fingernails, seemed to fill his lungs, seemed to be his entire world. Eventually, though, his fingers struck firm wood. Given the small diameter of the hole that they’d dug, they were all currently standing on the old, brown wooden coffin. His legs were brushing against both Daisy and Basira’s.

Near the top of it, there was a small eruption in the wood from within. Not large enough for any of them to see inside, but someone had clearly tried to escape from the inside out. There was no movement or sound now.

“Daisy, Basira, he’ll need help getting out,” Jon ordered. He waved his hand above the small pit they’d built. They nodded and climbed out of it, peering out over the edge. Jon could see that it was growing a little lighter, now, with some few pink rays shining across the edge of the horizon. “Martin, I’m going to _open_ the lid. Everything is _fine.” Please don’t be partially dismembered by Basira’s shovel. Please, please, please._

Pressing himself awkwardly to the side of the pit they had dug, Jon reached down for the lid. There was some resistance, and then – he was pulling it open with a grunt of pain.

And there he was.

Martin stared up at him. He was wearing a suit, and in the half-second before Jon’s brain shut down entirely, Jon immediately recognized it as the suit he’d been wearing in the picture with his mother so long ago. The picture currently tacked onto an _In Memoriam_ board in the front room of the Institute. It still didn’t fit him quite well.

His eyes were open, and wide, and so … so, very scared. But there was no sign of scorches, of burns, no sign of flesh being melted away. It was Martin as Jon remembered him – beautiful and incredibly stressed. His curls had been combed and styled back.

“Jon?” He asked.

Jon found himself grinning. He didn’t care that he was dripping water onto the recently resurrected man, he didn’t _care_ that he was still six feet under the Earth, he didn’t give one damn that more than one avatar was after him. Martin was here, and Martin was alive. Everything that had happened, everything that Jon had done … it was worth it to see the rise and fall of Martin’s chest.

His voice came out embarrassingly thick, and there were tears burning in his eyes. “Christ, Martin,” he forced out. He stared down at him. He seemed alright. Terrified and stunned, of course, but alright.

Jon wasn’t sure how long he stayed staring at him, but it took Basira’s awkward cough above the grave for him to snap back into action. He rubbed his frozen-stiff sleeve against his eyes and reached down for Martin’s hand. “Sorry. Sorry, ehm, let me help you up. Let’s go home.”

Martin stared at his hand for a second as if it were some foreign objective, before he nodded. He sat up from the coffin. Jon heard joints crack in protest and Martin winced, rubbing one hand at the back of his hair. Bits of dirt and wood fell from his skin. Still, he raised one shaking hand to grasp Jon’s own. “Okay,” Martin whispered.


	15. A Warm Hug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: None

Martin hadn’t uttered a word, and Jon had never been much one for small talk. Their cab ride was spent in silence. Both covered in dirt, Jon was pleased to just … take it all in.

They had stumbled out of Trent Park Cemetery together, with Basira and Daisy close on their heels. Martin had been silent, then, too. He was pale and cold. Jon had voiced complaint as Basira leaned forward to take his pulse – _frankly, he’d be taking Martin home whether he had a pulse or not, and possibly even if Martin expressed a desire to eat their brains –_ and had voiced that its presence. Jon had taken it in turn (because _god_ did he need some reassurance), and Martin _had_ given him a bit of a glare then, which meant that there was a sign of character, at least.

He supposed Martin was still in shock. It had been a very long night. Jon wasn’t entirely uncertain that he wasn’t in shock, too.

Clearly, Martin couldn’t be left alone when he was like this. Taking him back to rest up at the Archives was out of the question. At his flat, then. Jon was more than willing to have him there for as long as he needed – forever, if necessary. They had bid their farewells to Basira and Daisy. From the way that the latter kept swaying and twitching … Jon didn’t blame Basira wanting to place more of her attention on her. 

Which had left Martin and Jon to hail a cab. They had had significantly more trouble. A man in an ill-fitting, dirt-encrusted suit and a man who looked as Jon did did not make an excellent combination. The cab driver kept glancing back at them every few seconds. Jon wasn’t sure what he expected them to do, really. Perhaps start summoning the devil or trying to reanimate the dead. He was too tired to snap at him, instead half-asleep against the seat.

The adrenaline had worn off about thirty seconds into the cab ride, and Jon was suddenly hyperaware of how _frigid_ he was. He tried not to shiver too pathetically, because it really wasn’t right to complain about the cold when Martin had recently come back from the dead, but there it was. Jon huddled in on himself.

Wordlessly, Martin started to shrug off his suit jacket. “Bit dirty, sorry,” he muttered, distracted, as he placed it around Jon’s shoulders. It wasn’t very warm at all, but the earnestness of the gesture made Jon freeze on the chair. Jon flicked his eyes over to regard him sleepily. _So kind,_ his thoughts dribbled into his mind, _you’ve been dead for days, how can you still be so kind?_

Martin didn’t look any different, at least for being rather dead for days. His hair was combed a little more neatly than normal, though Jon supposed that was more the undertaker’s doing than Martin’s own. Still, he didn’t continue the conversation at all, and Jon wasn’t going to fight him on that. Jon tore his eyes away, not wanting to make the man feel like he was in some sort of zoo. He contented himself with staring outside until they reached their destination after muttering a small thanks for the jacket.

Martin was alive. _Martin_ was alive. Jon was surprised by how quickly the lead ball of grief disappeared from his body, replaced instead by anxiety for the future. _That_ was fine. _That_ he could deal with.

They pulled up in front of Jon’s flat. Jon was restless and still shivering as he darted forward to open the door for him. Martin shuffled outside of the cab and stared up at Jon’s flat, wordless and expressionless. His usually warm, welcome face was devoid of feeling.

“Right, um, mind the mess, it’s been a bit – hectic,” Jon murmured, uncertain of why he thought Martin would care about dishes in the sink. And, oh, _Christ,_ the spiders. Martin was fine with them, but they were hardly vey welcoming, and he hoped Annabelle had the good sense to clean up after himself properly.

He fussed with the keys. Martin’s jacket was draped across his shoulders, almost comically large on him, and the sleeves were getting in the way of unlocking his front door.

Finally, though, he stepped inside. It was warm and cosy indoors. Jon let out a deep sigh of relief as he stepped into it, scrubbing his hands across his face. He heard Martin step in and lock the door behind him. “I, er, I have to change, you would probably – like to as well, I imagine?”

Martin nodded once. He walked over to the sofa and sat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His gaze, wide-eyed and blank, was fixed on the floor.

Jon wasn’t certain what he would give to see Martin smile again. He wasn’t sure if there was a limit.

He ended up taking a shower instead of simply changing. The warm water on his skin was almost scalding, and Jon stood there for five minutes trying to regain the feeling in his fingertips again. The sensation of hot water was _highly_ overrated, Jon considered, though he noticed that … there was a bit of blood on his hands. It was dried.

A further examination of his body (there wasn’t much of it to examine, Jon had to sheepishly admit) showed no sign of injury. Jon wasn’t sure where the blood had come from. He was covered in scars, but nothing fresh. Hm.

He changed into a long robe and tied it firmly around his waist. A quick search through Martin’s things – and a quick hello and evening feeding to Templeton – and Jon was walking back into the living room with long cotton pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt.

Jon stopped in his tracks before he could get to the living room.

Martin’s face was in his hands. He was crying silently, shoulders heaving with the effort.

“Oh – oh, Martin,” Jon murmured, hurriedly bustling over. Wincing at the sensation, Jon got down in front of Martin. That way, at least, Martin could see him if he removed his hands from his face. He placed his palms on Martin’s knees. “Martin, everything’s alright. You’re alive, you’re here. It’s warm. You’re alright.” He wasn’t adept at comforting, and hoped that the tone and cadence of his voice bought Martin more relief than the words themselves.

It seemed to, as Martin moved. There was blood all over Martin’s face when he pulled his hands away. Jon twitched with a start before realizing that the blood had come from Martin’s own hands. Wooden splinters stuck out of them, particularly in the tips, and his fingernails were scratched to hell. _You’re so stupid. The coffin lid, of course he’s hurt himself,_ Jon realized in horror. “Hang on. Let me go – let me go get something to take care of that.”

He went to the kitchen and retrieved his reading glasses, sliding the eyeglass chain around his neck. The first-aid kit was under the sink. Soon, he was hurrying back into the living room and curling up on the floor in front of Martin. Jon reached for his hand and laid it, palm up, on his knee. “God, sorry,” Martin sniffed hard. There was still blood smeared across his face. “I’m so sorry, Jon. I don’t mean – I’m _so sorry._ ”

Jon looked up at him over the edges of his frames. “ _Don’t_ apologize,” he muttered. “ _Don’t,_ Martin, you’ve done absolutely nothing. You’ve done everything you needed to do.”

“No, not about that,” Martin offered. The chuckle he gave was tearstained, but no smile came out. “Know you’re not great with … _you know._ Feelings.” He waved his un-treated hand in front of his face, gesturing to the drying teartracks across his face.

“I think my discomfort with matters of the heart isn’t very important, at the minute.” Jon retrieved the disinfectant wipes and moved it across Martin’s palm and fingertips slowly. “I’m not going to snap at you for crying.”

Martin took a shuttering breath. It was punctuated by occasional noises of pain as Jon went at his palm with a pair of tweezers, though each strangled whimper was immediately buffeted by Jon’s swift, sincere apologies. For one horrifying moment, he saw that all of Martin’s fingernails were black underneath all the blood. _They’re frozen. He’s got hypothermia. He’s bruised them all. Oh god, I’m going to have to remove all of Martin’s fingernails, they’re necrotic, like teeth, necrotic pulp, oh god._

And then a bit of the black chipped off onto his finger. _Black nail polish._ Jon could’ve collapsed in relief. He found himself smiling at the sight of it.

Soon, he was cleaning Martin’s palm and wrapping each fingertip in clean bandages. It was only when he motioned for Martin’s other hand did his friend open his mouth again.

“The, um. Lid, you know. I tried to – I think I made progress, but the ground was nearly frozen together, I don’t know how you all … how you all managed it.”

“You can thank Daisy for that. She, ah, she made most of the headway out of all of us.” Jon shrugged. “How are you feeling?”

Martin rolled his shoulders back as if taking stock of his own body. His joints clicked again in complaint. The man smelled strongly of … a smell that seemed familiar to Jon, before he realized with a start, _oh,_ yes, embalming fluid, _lovely._ “Ehm. Not dead, but also sort of like I _was_ dead.”

“Not dead.” Jon agreed with him. As he continued to bandage where needed, his fingers brushed across Martin’s wrist. A reassuring pulse agreed with his statement. “Any grand revelations about life after death you’d like to share with me?”

“I can’t really, um – “ Martin raised his bandaged finger and tapped it against the side of his temple. “Remember the actual being dead part. It was mostly just being the, ah …” He trailed off, but fluttered his fingers. Jon understood what he was charading.

“Ah. A ghost, most of the time,” Jon murmured. He was suddenly hyper-focused on Martin’s palm as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, and for that moment, it was. Jon stroked his fingers along it, feeling for any sort of resistance. “What was it like?”

“Um. Sort of like I could scream as much as I wanted and nobody could hear me. Except for Elias,” Martin considered thoughtfully, “And I could – I could do things, but it was really … it made me feel like I was _less_ there, if that makes sense.”

Jon nodded slowly.

“Jon, I have to apologize for something.”

That made him look up from Martin’s palm with a questioning look. The idea that Martin had _anything_ at all to apologize for, after _everything_ he had been through, was absurd. But Martin was peering at him so intently that Jon had to pause in his ministrations.

“Look, I tried to – “ He broke eye contact and ducked his head, steeling himself. “I tried to help you. Whenever I could, alright? Writing that note from ‘Basira’, leading you into the tunnels to find Helen, finding the paperwork that said where I was buried – but I messed up.”

“How?” Jon asked softly. He had abandoned Martin’s hand, instead raising his own to press against Martin’s dress shirt.

“When Amara sent you to kill Fredrik Larsen, I … “ Martin took a deep breath. “ _Christ,”_ he breathed. It was said with such exhaustion and such _frustration_ that Jon was certain they would be having another conversation about all of that, _later._ “I didn’t want you to have to do that. It’d _bother_ you in ways that it wouldn’t bother Basira.”

Jon remained silent. He picked at small threads at Martin’s shirt. He was missing a button.

“So I tried to scare you off. I don’t know, I thought if I did enough – stupid ghost things, that it’d freak you out enough to leave. Or to at _least_ call for help.” It wasn’t a true bark of laughter he received, but something guilty and sad. “Forgot how stubborn you were. I’m sorry. I gave up after you started to … “ Martin trailed off, and Jon knew what he meant. “And just helped Basira get to where she needed to go.”

It occurred to Jon that Martin probably knew who shot the gun that killed Fredrik Larsen. He didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know. Having Martin in front of him now … even if he had, it would be well worth it.

Still, the idea that Martin wanted to apologize – “It’s actually some comfort, knowing that it was you,” Jon confessed. He found himself unable to be frustrated. Perhaps he should have been angrier, more, but seeing Martin, still half-covered in splinters and dragged up from a literal grave … well, he was willing to forgive him. “Please don’t feel badly about it, Martin. I can manage a little fright, myself. I’ve done it quite a bit the past few days.”

A strange look crossed over Martin’s face. With his fully bandaged hand, he scratched the back of his neck lightly.

“Sorry, it’s been hard to keep track of time. How long have I been … ?”

“Oh! Um,” Jon had to work the dates himself. It _couldn’t_ have been only … but he had supposed it had been. “Three days?” He readjusted his glasses on his nose and reached for the bandages. “No, four, the sun’s starting to rise.”

“Oh.” Not the answer Martin had been expecting. Jon wondered if he had thought it was longer or shorter. His eyes dropped down towards his knees. “I look – okay? For four days. Physically, I’m not sort of … rotting.”

“Yes, well, I imagine that’s part of the whole business, right? Wouldn’t be much use reanimating a corpse that fell apart right away.” Jon inspected Martin’s fingernails closely. _Eugh._ Poor man had clearly been frantic, scrabbling at the wood. Jon wasn’t sure if he’d ever forget the sound of … thumping.

“A corpse. Right.” There were a few moment’s pause, punctuated only by Jon snipping off the edge of a bandage with some scissors. “Jon, am I human?”

Jon looked up at him and blinked once. What a question.

“If you know. I mean – I don’t exactly _feel_ any different, but considering you’re the expert in …” _Being a monster,_ Jon filled in silently with no small amount of bitterness.

Jon finished with the bandaging. “I believe so, yes,” he admitted, “But I’m not an expert. When I spoke with Amara, I –” A somewhat intense look crossed over Martin’s face. Martin was clearly _highly_ displeased that Jon had done it, and Jon found himself rubbing his hand up and down Martin’s upper arm for comfort. “ _Sh,”_ he soothed momentarily. “The last person she brought back was fine, and I think you will be, too. But I’ll watch you.”

In fact, _Christ,_ he could spend the rest of his life watching Martin and it wouldn’t be so bad. He didn’t want to take his eyes away from him, now. His hand stayed on Martin’s arm.

“Okay.” Jon could see more questions on his face, and Jon nodded back to him. “Why were you wet? In the grave, I mean. Obviously, wet now because of the shower. I felt you get water on me, but it was just foggy outside.”

He reached up and ran his fingers through his warmly damp hair. It had so direly needed a good wash. “I got out of my deal with Lukas.” The same strange, intense look crossed over Martin’s face. _Going to need to talk about it. Not now, Martin, you seem so tired,_ Jon inwardly soothed him. His fingers trailed down Martin’s arm until it wrapped around his wrist. He squeezed it for emphasis. “I’ll promise you right now that everyone is okay, and nobody is in any imminent danger.”

Jon offered him a pleased smile, even if he was internally worrying about it. Martin wasn’t pleased with Jon’s actions over the past few days, throwing himself into danger – _fine,_ they could have a row about it, he just didn’t want Martin to stress himself. Not when he had already been through so much.

His hand didn’t leave Martin’s wrist. Jon’s thumb rested right on Martin’s wrist, feeling his pulse bump solidly against his own. He furrowed his eyebrows as it sped up, but didn’t make the connection. To him, it was only beautiful evidence that Martin was alive again.

“It’s getting long.”

“Hm?” Jon asked, broken out of his thoughts. Martin had raised his hand and pressed it against Jon’s temple, smoothing it there. _When’s the last time you got touched in a casual way? A friendly way?_ Jon thought to himself, leaning into the touch warmly.

“Your hair. It’s getting long, I – I hadn’t realized.”

“You’ve been busy, I suppose, with … everything. And I keep it up, most days, but it really is due for a trim.” With his free hand, Jon pulled at the end of it – it reached past his shoulder, now. It flopped there, making the shoulder of his robes damp. “Perhaps even a chop.”

“No, no. Looks nice.”

Even if it was useless small talk, Jon was _thoroughly_ grateful for making conversation that didn’t have to do with fear or death. Now, they were both staring at Jon’s hair. Jon could sense that the conversation was partially due to awkwardness, and he removed his hand from Martin’s wrist. He coughed to look away. “Um, are you – hungry? It _has_ been four days since you’ve eaten.”

“Weirdly enough … not really? I’ll re-evaluate in the morning, but I think I’m – If I ate anything, I’d be sick.” Martin cleared his throat. “Water. Water would be nice, though, thank you.”

Jon nodded and left him, finding blessed escape in the kitchen. It had been a very long time since he’d had anyone over, _much_ less his reanimated friends. He put his arms on the counter to support himself as he stared at the wall.

 _Everyone’s stayed alive another day. Celebrate that._ Impossible to know what was happening next. The Extinction, the Lukas, _Martin._ He could relax, and try to let _some_ of the tension leave him. Turning around, Jon poured a glass of water and re-oriented himself with the feel of the glass. _Solid, real, yes, nothing to worry about. Martin is back and everything is fine, at least for one night._

When he returned back to the living room, Martin had changed into the clothing that Jon had brought him. The dirt-covered suit he’d been buried in was currently being folded. “Um, do you want me to wash – “

“ _Please_ burn it, actually.”

“Got it.” Jon placed the glass on the table. Martin took a long drink from it, and when he received the glass back, it was fully empty. Poor man must’ve been thirsty. Four days of being dead would do that to a person. “Better?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” Martin didn’t _look_ particularly better, and he leaned forward on his knees again as if he were about to cry once more. Instead, he stared at his folded hands as he tried to make sense of things. “Jon, what … “

Ah. The conversation that Jon had been dreading. Jon stuck out a hand to cut him off.

“Martin, how many times have I told you that everyone is _fine?”_

“Fine is variable. None of our friends are fine. Melanie and Georgie, debatably.”

Jon felt a pang of guilt hit his gut.

“And _you -- !_ I mean, god, Jon!” Martin scoffed. “How many Avatars did you make deals with? How many times did you risk your life or – or end up getting captured by some Entity, or get yourself _hurt,_ all because you wanted to – “

“To save you.”

That seemed to cut Martin off at the pass for a moment. When he looked up at Jon again, Jon saw an actual haunted look in his eyes. He was _guilty_ for being angry, and Jon didn’t want that. “Please don’t do anything like that again, okay? I’m. I’m _grateful_ that you brought me back, obviously, I’m happy to be alive, but …” And there, Martin flashed him his first, shy smile. “You know, someone ought to look after you once in a while?” 

Oh, Jon liked that smile. Jon could do with that smile forever. He grinned back at him. A few days ago, Jon hadn’t ever thought that he’d see Martin smile ever again, and now Martin, in ratty pajamas, was smiling at him. Jon’s face grew hot. Christ, he didn’t know what to _say_ to that, at such an overt display of expression and fondness. Martin let out an awkward chuckle and looked down at the space between them.

“Is it funny that the only thing I want to do, after days of being dead, is sleep?”

“I. Hilarious – well, depressing, really, if you think about it, hm. Don’t – I not thinking about it.” _I not thinking about it. I’m never going to speak words again._ Jon quickly averted his eyes to spare himself another embarrassing moment. “Sleep as long as you’d like, you don’t have to be anywhere.”

Nodding, Martin began to look around at the sofa as if searching for something. With a soft noise of exertion, he leaned over and reached one of Jon’s obligatory sofa pillows. Jon looked up in realization. “ _No,”_ he ordered in a same voice that one would lecture a misbehaving pet, “You’re sleeping in a bed.” Jon paused. Martin had froze on the sofa, pillow still clutched in his arm. “ _My_ bed. I’ll sleep out – “ From the look on Martin’s face, _that_ wasn’t going to happen, either. “Out … next to you. In the bed. It’s a large bed. For two. I don’t normally have two.” _Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up._ “If that’s alright.”

“Oh. Um, yeah, if you’re comfortable with it.” Martin had gone quite red himself, and Jon was pleased that his blush had company. It seemed silly, even, to be uncertain about this when Martin had just been plucked out of a grave, but Jon supposed nothing could ever be easy. Perhaps it was a good sign, that he was worried about something like sharing a bed with a man he had an awful lot of heavy, complicated feelings for.

 _He_ was exhausted, too. Near-freezing aside, it had been one of the longest days of his life. Jon had no idea how to deal with everything, mentally. Ignoring it until it became un-ignorable seemed to be working, for now, and focusing on Martin seemed easier.

Martin stood from the couch after a moment. His knees gave a wobble and Jon immediately leapt up to put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. Not like he could do much in that regard – Martin was six inches taller than he was and Jon’s own leg was twinging badly from the pain. Still, Martin put his own hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he joked weakly, “Haven’t got my sealegs yet.”

“Understandable. Understandable,” Jon murmured. He didn’t remove his hand from Martin’s shoulder, uncertain if the trembling he was feeling in Martin’s shoulder was meant to be worrying or not. He was rather close, wasn’t he? Martin’s hair had gotten ruffled when he’d put the sweatshirt on. That made him seem less … dead. “I imagine you’re stiff. I – don’t know about you, but I could _never_ sleep on my back and you’ve been doing it for days.”

That poor joke earned him another smile. The laugh was more like a rush of air than anything imparting true humor, though. “I don’t know. I was sleeping like the dead, myself.”

Jon tittered weakly at the returned joke. He was grateful that Martin was attempting humor. Even before all of this, he hadn’t seen Martin very often, caught up in Lukas and his work as he was. And it’d been a long time since he was this close to him, anyway, able to see that the gray of his eyes got a bit more blue close to the edges.

A full minute passed in silence between them. Jon started up at his face, as exhausted as it was, in contented silence.

Then he was essentially pushed forward into Martin’s chest, so quickly and so forcefully that he let out a noise of fearful surprise. Perhaps Martin _had_ gotten an interest in brains after all, but – no, Martin was hugging him. Martin was hugging him so tightly that Jon couldn’t escape his grasp. He couldn’t breathe until Martin readjusted his arms, letting his lungs fill gratefully with air. Hardly mattered how tight the hug was: Jon already knew he didn’t want to leave.

Hesitantly, he slid his arms around Martin’s worn old sweatshirt. Christ, it was such a bright red – when had he last seen Martin wear such a bright color? And Martin wasn’t cold anymore. As Jon was squeezed so tightly in his chest, he realized he wasn’t cold anymore, either. He also smelled strongly of the inside of a morgue still. _Shit. Should’ve offered him a shower. Ask him later. Be a considerate person._ He nevertheless nuzzled his face against Martin’s chest, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

“Thank you.” Martin’s voice was quiet. Jon heard the vibrations more than he heard the actual tone. “Thank you for saving me, Jon, but – _please_ don’t risk yourself for me, like that, ever. Ever again.”

Oh. That made Jon finally relax, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He put more weight against Martin, which Martin accepted gratefully. One of Martin’s hands reached up to brush through his hair.

Another long day done, and there was no promise that tomorrow wouldn’t hold worse. It was difficult to have hope, but somehow, he could manage an ounce of it during times like this.

“Well,” Jon remarked softly, “How many people can stand me, really? I’d do well not to lose the few that can.”

That made Martin genuinely laugh, making his chest rumble. It filled Jon with a pleasant giddiness. Martin’s arms loosened around him and Jon took a step back to look up at his face. There were tears gathered in the corners of his eyes again, but more color there. More _presence._

He wasn’t really sure who kissed whom first. Jon supposed it was more effort for Martin to lean down than it was for Jon to lean up, but Jon _had_ thrown his arms around Martin’s neck to drag him down like he was some ridiculous leading lady in a romantic soap opera – so he was willing to say it had been the both of them.

Not that it mattered who kissed first, because it ended up the same way regardless. Jon kissed him, feeling the warmth of his pulse against his neck, before moving his palms forward to press against Martin’s face. His fingers slightly sank into Martin’s skin, pleasant and soft.

In that moment, Jon _had_ hope. He had hope that it would turn out alright – all of it, that perhaps he could get to the end of it and be free to do what he wished. To simply be with Martin. To simply love him, and not have to worry about what that love might cost. Because he _wanted_ it to turn out alright, so badly, there was something so _tangible,_ here, in his hands, _waiting_ for him, that it had to be alright.

He knew it wouldn’t be. Logically, he knew that fate – if such a term really existed – wouldn’t give a toss about his feelings for Martin. The world wouldn’t be saved on the basis of love and warm fuzzy feelings. He likely had some cruel, painful death waiting for him as some eye-riddled monster. But, it gave him hope, and perhaps that would stop him from sinking into useless despair.

It’d been a long time since Jon had kissed anyone, and Martin had been recently resurrected from the dead. Jon doubted they would be getting any points for technical merit, and yet, Jon let out a pleased _giggle_ as he felt Martin’s arm tighten around his waist. Martin straightened his spine and, in that moment, Jon’s feet were lifted off the ground.

 _I love him, I love him, I love him, I love him,_ Jon thought soppily, and he was quickly lowered onto his feet. Martin pulled away, red-faced, and kept a hand on his lower back to make sure Jon was steady. “I didn’t mean to pick you up, you’re a lot lighter than I thought you’d be,” he apologized. _No, I was wrong before. Now I love him._

Jon did nothing but beam. Eventually, Martin gave him a somewhat subdued, shy little smile in return. It wasn’t as expressive as he’d come to think from the man, but he supposed months of being curated by the Lonely and then a few days of being dead would do that. That was alright. He was still partially leaning against Martin’s chest, happy to be in contact still.

Still, there was something strange about Martin’s expression. It was like a steel wall slid behind his eyes – the warmth he’d been seeing, if momentarily, vanished as if Martin had cut it off. Jon wondered if he was just being dramatic, but he could’ve sworn that Martin _felt_ colder.

“No, um, that was good,” Jon eventually said after a time. “ I – “ An open and honest talk about feelings was _clearly_ in order, and perhaps if Jon were relatively quick about it, he could get it out before the adrenaline wore off – or before Martin completely shut him down. “Martin, I _really_ –”

“Could we just go to bed?” It came off as blunt, and Jon stopped talking. His mouth didn’t shut, though. “Sorry. I _am_ so sorry, I just – “ Martin shifted his weight to his other foot and stared down at the floor. He was biting his lip so hard that Jon was surprised he wasn’t drawing blood. “I’d rather get some sleep before we … talk, about something like this. I need to think about what to say.” Martin looked up at him, and the same shielded look in Jon’s eyes gave him pause. “My head’s just foggy, and I don’t want to say something that … that I don’t mean. You know?”

 _The poor man’s spent months being purposefully isolated, restricted from his feelings. This is a lot for him,_ Jon told himself, self-soothing, _It doesn’t mean he’s changed his mind, it doesn’t mean the kiss was so catastrophically bad that he’s lost all feelings for you, it means that … you can’t fix what happened to him with a kiss. That’s all._

It soothed his hurt pride a little. Jon reached for Martin’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Martin gripped it back. “Yes, of course. It’s 5 in the morning and we have a lot to sort out what happens tomorrow. Later today, I suppose. Please don’t feel poorly about it, Martin. If anyone understands it, rest assured that I do.”

Martin spared him a grateful smile. Together, they strode down the hallway back towards the bedroom. Jon tried hard not to think about the recorder, probably still lodged in his wall somewhere, with Martin’s death tape in it. He shuddered nevertheless as he pushed his door open.

He was greeted by a loud _skreet!_

Martin dropped Jon’s hand to go over to the rat cage. “ _Templeton,”_ he reveled with genuine joy as he opened the latch. “Oh, Templeton, I’m so glad you’re alright. Daddy’s here, it’s okay, you’re okay,” he reassured the eager creature. Jon walked over. _Daddy?_ He thought to himself, silently judging. “Did you take care of him, Jon?”

“It’s – part of a long story that I promise we won’t talk about tonight, but yes.” A pause, and Jon extended a few fingers for the creature to sniff him. “He’s not terrible company. Martin, don’t _kiss_ him, he’s a rodent.”

“Telling me what to do with my own rat,” Martin cooed at Templeton, stroking his thumb across his coat, “The _nerve.”_

Templeton, though Jon was not well-versed in the emotional capabilities of rats, seemed pleased enough. He travelled around and around in Martin’s hand, sniffing and nibbling where he pleased. “Thank you, though. I didn’t even – god, I didn’t even think about what would happen to him. My poor Tempy.”

“Poor _Tempy_ is fine.” And had a brush with an avatar, nevertheless. Jon was pleased to see that his cage was free of spiderwebs, and no spiders in sight. Martin gently lowered the rat back into his cage. “I can keep him for a bit, while you get your bearings.”

“No, no, that’s – “ A pause. Martin stuck his hands in his pockets, sheepish. “That might be for the best. Thank you, Jon.”

It wasn’t a problem. Jon looked back towards his bed and went to sit on it, as if it were perfectly normal for him to _sit_ on his bed and not immediately sprawl out like a starfish or curl up like a newborn. _First time you’ve ever invited someone into your bed, in any circumstance,_ Jon thought to himself wryly, and gestured towards the unused side. “Er, feel free to make yourself at home.”

Martin sat down on the other side. He didn’t seem to be intent on moving his feet from the floor, instead just staring outside of Jon’s window. Jon waited, letting him process, before shuffling over. His hands went on Martin’s shoulders. “Are you alright?”

“Honestly, not really.” Martin raised one of his hands to press over Jon’s. There was something strangely airy to his voice. Jon tried to think of where he had heard that particular intonation before, but he wouldn’t let himself make the connection to Peter Lukas or the Lonely just yet. “You’re more of an expert than I am. This isn’t … some sort of dream, is it? How would you be able to tell? I mean. I know I’m not a ghost, but …”

Jon thought about offering to pinch him, but he knew fully well by then that people could get hurt in dreams. Jon had caused enough hurt to know. He paused and thought for an answer that would soothe Martin’s nerves. Well – “Because you’re going to go to bed, and wake up, and the world will still be there,” Jon reasoned. “And then you’re going to go to bed again, and wake up again, and the world will still be there.”

Jon saw a flash of teeth. A smile. “Promise?”

“I’ll have a word with the appropriate authorities about it.” That earned Jon a laugh. Jon leaned forward across Martin’s shoulder to press a kiss against his cheek. “Get to bed.” It was strange how _easy_ it felt to peck him, like they’d been doing this for years. But Martin didn’t respond to it.

Martin still didn’t move as Jon shuffled to the side of the bed. He reached forward for the lamp, and Martin did stop him then – “Could we keep it on? Just, er. It was dark.”

His hand froze on the lamp and Jon retracted it. “Of course, Martin.”

That finally got Martin to move. Martin laid down with his head on the pillow, facing Jon’s back. Jon could feel eyes on him – he wondered if he was going to be held. It wasn’t like he would _mind,_ really, rather the opposite. Christ, it would be so nice.

No. Nothing. Jon was surprised that he was disappointed.

A few minutes passed before it quickly became evident that Jon wasn’t going to sleep with the harsh light of the lamp in his eyes. Jon rolled to his other side, facing Martin, and saw that Martin was wide awake and staring worriedly at him still. “Alright?” He mumbled, and Martin swallowed deeply.

“Think, ah. Stupid. Think I’m afraid to sleep.”

“Not stupid,” Jon corrected on impulse, but was really too tired to lecture him on it. Perhaps he ought not to wait for Martin to hold him. Instead, he slid one arm around Martin’s back and settled his head on his collarbone. “Close your eyes. You’ll still be able to see the light, and I’ll be right here.”

Martin slowly raised an arm and wrapped it around Jon’s waist. He was being pulled closer, their bodies flush against one another (as best as they could be, given the height difference), and Jon felt Martin incline his chin down to kiss the top of his head.

 _No,_ Jon thought to himself sleepily, _now I love him._

What a tangled web he had wound himself in. Jon didn’t know where any of the strands led. Couldn’t even be certain if resurrecting Martin was the right choice, from the point of view of the universe’s continued survival. He was still fumbling in the dark, and he could only hope a creature – eight-legged or no – wasn’t lying in wait for him to make one final, fatal error.

But, Jon figured, how bad of a decision could it really have been? Martin was holding him and his nose was pressed to the top of his hair and it was a moment of peace. Even if it were foolish, Jon could be content with that.

He shut his eyes and went to sleep in Martin’s arms.


	16. A Temporary Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: None

Jon woke up alone.

The fear hit him first. He instinctively went forward when he realized no large man was hugging him, and then he opened his eyes. There was nothing. Even Martin’s side of the bed was perfectly made, as if he had never been there in the first place. It was cold.

His breathing caught hard in his throat. _No,_ Jon thought to himself, scrambling out of the blankets. “Martin? Martin! Martin, where’ve you gone to?” Templeton was there, scrabbling away in his cage as usual. Jon tripped on the wooden floor as he struggled out of his bed. It caused him to slam his shin on the wall and he went down, smacking his cheek against the wooden flooring. _Shit. No no no no no. Was it a dream? Is Martin really gone again?_

Nothing in the front room, no rumpled, dirt-covered suit or any sign it had ever been there. He went to the kitchen, pleading for there to be an empty tea mug resting upside down in the sink. Nothing. Jon was half ready to go start knocking on neighbors’ doors. _Have you seen this man?_

There was one room left. Perhaps a shower. Perhaps he had caught the thirty seconds after a shower ended, where one kills the water but stays alone with their thoughts. Jon dashed back towards his bedroom and flung it open.

Nothing. No used towel, no sign that Martin had ever used it. The shower wasn’t even wet. All-in-all, no sign at all that Martin had ever been in his flat at any point in time. _Shit._ Jon’s heart was about ready to start beating out of his chest in panic. He looked, wild-eyed, towards the bathroom mirror.

There was something white pinned to the front of his robe with a paperclip. His hand went to cover it – _paper –_ before he took it off.

_Good morning, Jon,_

_Lukas asked to talk to me this morning. It sounded important. I didn’t want to wake you. You deserve the sleep._

_Thank you again for what you did for me. And last night. I don’t know what else to say, just thank you. You know I feel the same, but you also understand – more than anyone – when there are more important things to be done. I’m sorry._

_Talk to you later._

_Xoxoxo Martin_

Jon crumpled the paper in his hand.

Damn _Lukas_ and whatever hold he had over Martin. Damn Lukas and whatever he wanted with Martin. Damn Lukas, and the Lonely, and every Entity in existence.

He stood in the bathroom for some time more, just staring in the bathroom mirror at himself. At his gray hair. At the scars. _It’s not fair. Only one night,_ Jon thought to himself miserably, _Most people get thirty, forty years worth of nights. And now … things are going back to normal._ It was later, nearly ten in the morning. Jon didn’t want to go into work. He wanted to sulk like a rejected schoolboy and lay on his bed.

It wasn’t a good time to mope, no, but Jon was starting to find it particularly hard to _care_ about that. He wanted to march into the Archives and yank Lukas away from Martin, away from whatever power made Martin do whatever he said. But, as Martin said, there were more important things to be done.

Apparently.

Jon jumped as his phone rang. He had high hopes that were quickly dashed when he saw –

“Basira,” he murmured across the phone. “Hi.”

“Jon. You coming in today?” Basira winced. “Sorry, didn’t make it sound like I was lecturing you for being late. I think we all deserve a day off after last night. Daisy and I slept here. So.”

Jon looked around at his flat, at the perfectly made side of his bed. No, he had no reason beyond impetus for wanting to stay here in his flat. “Er, yeah. Yeah, sorry, just last night. Obviously. I need to shower, get dressed.”

“Great. And here’s something – all of Elias’ stuff is out of his office. He hasn’t been in today, either.”

 _That_ was unusual. “Lukas?”

“I mean, presumably he’s here, but I haven’t seen him. Martin came in though – he was, ah, he was sniffling a little,” Basira admitted. “How bad is he?”

 _We’re both just a tad heartbroken. That’s all. Nothing, really._ “He’ll make it. He just … we need to keep an eye on him, the same as usual. Daisy’s fine?”

“A little shaky last night, but she’s in this morning and doing fine. You?”

_A tad heartbroken._

“Tired,” Jon muttered instead. Basira let out a dry humorless chuckle in agreement. “Back to the office, then. Everything back to normal. Can you dig through the statements to find me something nice? I _am_ going to need a top-up, I think, if we’re going to deal with --- “

_The Web the End the Slaughter the Spiral the Vast the Stranger the Dark the Eye the Buried the Flesh the Corruption the Desolation the Hunt the Extinction._

_Jon suddenly had a flash of something – not a vision, not anything quite that helpful, but a flash of intuition. Of knowledge. Of eyes._

Jon blinked hard.

“With whatever comes next.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that for 'Tangling with the Candlestick Maker'!
> 
> I knew I wanted to get the rest of the fic published before Season 5 in early April, and we do, technically, have one more Sunday before then. But a certain Suppo defends their thesis very soon, so they thought it'd be best to post the rest of it now.
> 
> We end on a little bit of a bittersweet note (and I'm a bit of a liar, because I /did/ promise the last chapter would have a very alive Martin Blackwood, and he technically doesn't feature in this one!) as I try to tie up the strings between the end of this fic and the start of episode 157. But Martin is alive (but not okay) and Jon is alive (but definitely not okay). 
> 
> Thank you to absolutely everyone who has read and followed along this far! It's definitely been the longest thing I've ever written [especially as a goddamn single POV] and I've quite enjoyed the little rollercoaster it's sent me on [as a fun fact, the Fredrik Larsen chapter was not originally in the plan]. I've absolutely loved everyone following along with the story and leaving comments about their takeaways or favorite lines, so thank you to all who have done/continue to do that!
> 
> \- Suppo

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading the premiere chapter!  
> Just wanted to explain briefly the AU re: Elias -- technically, it was only announced that he was released in EP158, but this episode is pre-157 -- so it's just a minor canon detail I've tweaked a bit.  
> Welcome to the closest work I'll ever write on major character death! Poor Jon is going to go through it a bit. As a general note, I'll be updating every Sunday and always welcome comments/kudoses, but either way, thank you for reading!


End file.
